


e cineribus ad astra

by nitrogenoxygen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bisexual Regulus Black, F/M, M/M, POV Regulus Black, Professor Regulus Black, Regulus Black Deserves Better, Regulus Black Feels, Regulus Black Lives, Regulus Black-centric, Updating tags as I go, all the reg tags, bc i'm bi and i said so, black brothers, no beta we die like regulus in canon, there will be wolfstar but i'll add that relationship tag when it actually appears
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:26:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28230864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nitrogenoxygen/pseuds/nitrogenoxygen
Summary: In 1979, Regulus Black goes to the cave to die.In 1981, Regulus Black wakes up.And is promptly offered a job.(or: Regulus is the Potions Master instead of Snape. This changes everything)
Relationships: (past and also unresolved), Regulus Black & Andromeda Black Tonks, Regulus Black & Bartemius Crouch Jr., Regulus Black & Narcissa Black Malfoy, Regulus Black & Sirius Black, Regulus Black/Bartemius Crouch Jr., Regulus Black/Original Character(s), Regulus Black/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 125
Kudos: 255





	1. the drink of despair

**Author's Note:**

> e cineribus ad astra = something like "out of the ashes and towards the stars" 
> 
> look i just wanted a funky fancy latin phrase as a title don't worry about it
> 
> disclaimer i don't own harry potter, that honour goes to jkr. would also like to say that this is a safe space for all people and i don't support her transphobic views, but yeah, i don't own harry potter.

It was hard to pinpoint exactly when Regulus had stopped subscribing to the toxic ideology of the Dark Lord and his Death Eater, blood purist compatriots. When he watched Lily Evans step in to stop her fellow Gryffindors from harassing Slytherins in the corridors despite the hate and slurs his house tossed at her, perhaps, or maybe when a muggleborn in his year gave him a spare quill when he’d lost his without asking for thanks or repayment, or maybe when he’d stood back and watched his psychotic cousin torture an innocent muggle, looking between Bellatrix, who was throwing her head back and cackling, and the muggle, who had done nothing but was still writhing on the ground and screaming a high-pitched, terrible sound, and wondering who was really the ‘impure’ one.

Once the first treasonous thought crossed his mind, the cracks in the glass began to show. Regulus was smart, and he prided himself on his brain, his clever logic and creativity. The concept of purebloods being inherently superior to half-bloods or muggleborns just didn’t hold up when he looked at it closer, the blinding effects of his parents whispering lies into his ear as a child fading. He was surrounded by mediocre pureblood wizards, children of the Sacred Twenty-Eight with no spectacular intelligence or magical power to show for it, while there were half-bloods and muggleborns, like Evans and Lupin, who had both in spades.

When it came to muggles and the oft-spouted superiority of wizards, the issue was much more difficult. For a long time, even as his views on blood purism shifted, he clung to the idea that muggles were inferior, the one remaining vestige of his parents’ teachings. It seemed irrefutable that wizards were just _better_ , because they could do magic and muggles could not.

But once he ventured into Muggle London in the summer before sixth year, freshly Marked and desperate for evidence to prove his claims, he found that his experience only served to show him that he was yet again wrong. Muggles didn’t have magic, but that didn’t mean they were less. They had gone to the moon before Regulus had even been born; he knew no spells or wizarding trinkets that could perform such a feat. They had their own weapons which could have catastrophic effects, like bombs which were similar to the Blasting Curse, and guns which could in some cases kill as quickly as a Killing Curses. Their abilities with technology allowed them to match and replicate what magic could do.

Muggles didn’t have magic, but that didn’t mean they weren’t human. It was shameful that it took him sixteen years to realise that one indisputable fact. They laughed and cried and mourned and celebrated just like wizards did, they swore and stole and tortured and killed just like wizards did, they breathed like wizards did, their hearts hummed to the same soundless beat that wizards did. They didn’t deserve to be slaughtered and enslaved by the people he had once called _friend_ , still called _family_.

But the Dark Lord didn’t accept any resignation letters, and he made it clear what fate awaited traitors to his cause.

So when Kreacher came back from his mission drenched and shaking, babbling about a basin filled with a terrible potion and a locket placed beneath, the first thought that crossed his mind was, _finally, a way out_.

“Kreacher,” he said, crouching down next to the trembling elf and settling his hands gently on his shoulders, “I need you to tell me what happened.”

He pieced the truth together several nights later, replaying Kreacher’s horrifying tale in his head and consulting the Darkest books in 12 Grimmauld Place’s extensive library. It was not a pretty truth, but then again, the truest truths rarely had any beauty to them.

The Dark Lord had made a Horcrux.

The Darkest of the Dark, so Dark even his family’s library had little content about them. To shred your own soul, to rip it apart just to live forever…it was sickening. Regulus looked at the Mark on his left forearm and wondered how he had ever blindly followed such a man, blindly believed in his honeyed words and promises.

A plan came together quickly after that, though it was barely a plan.

“Kreacher,” he whispered while his parents slumbered upstairs. “Kreacher, I need you to take me to the cave.” He had nothing but muggle jeans, a plain white collared t-shirt, a Gryffindor sweater left behind by Sirius in his rush to leave years ago, his polished wand clutched in one hand, and a false locket clutched in the other, a perfect mimicry of Slytherin’s fabled, now desecrated locket.

“Master Regulus!” Kreacher exclaimed, round glassy eyes widening and flappy ears springing up.

“I need to go to the cave,” he repeated.

“Master Regulus, it is too dangerous!”

“I _order you_ , Kreacher,” he said, and his closest friend wrung his hands, nodding with obvious reluctance. He didn’t like forcing Kreacher to do his bidding, but the elf never would have done it otherwise.

A small, wrinkly hand wrapped around his thin wrist, and there was a quiet pop. 12 Grimmauld Place’s dimly lit kitchen disappeared from view, and they arrived at the entrance of an ominous cave.

When they walked further ahead, they came to an entrance, blocked by rocks. “It requires a blood sacrifice,” Kreacher explained, bobbing his head. “Kreacher can—”

Regulus shook his head and drew his wand, pointing it at his arm. “Diffindo,” he murmured, ignoring Kreacher’s cries. The purposefully low-powered spell created a shallow cut; he winced as he held it over the slab of stone, letting drops of red fall down. There was a great shudder as the rocks moved out of the way, allowing them to walk into the cave uninhibited. A quick Episkey mostly healed the cut, leaving only a thin line that no longer bled.

Another spell, Lumos, made light glow from the tip of his wand, though he noted that it didn’t reach as far as it usually would; something in the cave dampened its power. The Dark Lord was a formidable enemy and had planted traps and protections to guard a piece of his soul.

He glanced at the murky water, thinking of the monstrosities that Kreacher had described lingering beneath the unbroken surface, and shuddered as his magic unveiled the concealed rickety rowboat and he clambered into it, Kreacher pressing into his side as they moved towards the island in the middle of the lake, the basin that shone with a watery green light. It was eerily similar to the light of the Killing Curse, and he took a moment to smile at the parallel.

A goblet sat on the edge of the basin and he picked it up with quivering hands, wrapping sickly pale fingers around the cool glass. Kreacher hovered next to him, tugging at his robes.

“Master Regulus should not be here,” he muttered.

He offered him a wan smile and sucked in a harsh breath. His friend would not like his next set of instructions.

“Kreacher, I am going to drink this potion.”

“Master Regulus!”

“I am going to drink this potion,” he said again, louder, “and when I am too weak to do so on my own, I order you to force me to continue. I order you to make no attempts to stop me from drinking the potion, and to make me drink it until every last drop is gone and the locket can be removed. Then, I order you to swap the genuine locket with this locket,” he held up his manufactured fake, “and _leave me behind_.”

“Master!” Kreacher was crying, and he felt his eyes sting, but he barrelled on.

“I order you to leave with the real locket and try to destroy it using any means possible; do not dawdle and try to save me. I order you not to tell my family about what transpired tonight even if they ask you about it. These orders overrule any I give while under the influence of the potion. Do you understand me, Kreacher?”

“Kreacher cannot,” he wailed.

“You must,” Regulus said, grip on the goblet tightening. “You understand me?”

There was a lengthy pause as he fought the orders, but magic did not relent, and he gave a tiny, jerky nod. “Kreacher understands,” he warbled, face wet.

“Okay,” Regulus said, clenching his jaw and staring at his reflection in the emerald green potion. He looked painfully young, inky curls tucked behind his ears and silvery grey eyes wide.

There was so much more he wanted to do. He wanted to fall in love, he wanted stare into someone else’s eyes and dance with them under the stars and map out their body with his touch. He wanted to reconnect with his brother, he wanted to hug Sirius again and call him _brother_ without spite drenching the word, he wanted to go to his wedding and eat at his table and watch him into the good man he’d always known he would be. He wanted to see the world without war. He wanted to see a better world.

He traced the Gryffindor crest on his stolen sweater and breathed in. If he pretended hard enough, he could smell his brother’s scent, lingering in the woven red and gold threads. It was fitting that Sirius, not his raging mother or absent father but the brother he still loved despite everything, would be with him for his final moments.

Regulus filled the goblet with potion and brought it to his lips.

The first few gulps made his throat burn. After finishing the first goblet, he felt woozy, unsteady on his two legs and leaning on the basin for support. His stomach was roiling, and breathing was harder and more painful. Eyes slightly unfocused, he scooped up more potion and drank, and drank, and drank, and drank.

“Thirsty, little brother?”

His head shot up; he almost spilled the precious potion in his eagerness to seek out the source of that voice, a voice he would recognise anywhere, only he hadn’t heard it speak with such gentle fondness in a long time.

“Sirius,” he breathed, voice cracking.

He was leaning with his elbow braced on the edge of the basin across from him, head cocked to the side. Long, loose black curls tumbled past his shoulders, framing the sharp edges of his handsome, angular face. A roguish smirk sat on his full lips, and his dark grey eyes gleamed with something unspoken.

Regulus glanced at the sleeves of his Gryffindor sweater and shook his head, blinking forcefully. “This isn’t real,” he murmured, gulping down the remnants of the goblet and refilling it with unsteady hands.

“Master Regulus?” Kreacher asked, but his voice was faint despite his presence right at his side, like it couldn’t penetrate through the building fog in his mind.

“Of course I’m real,” Sirius said, grin widening. “Silly Reggie.”

The potion tasted like acid on his tongue.

“Shut up,” he snapped. “You don’t get to call me that. You lost the right to call me that.”

The veneer of brotherly love fell. It was familiar, this hateful glare, but it still hurt.

“Oh?” His voice was deceptively airy. “Did I, Reggie?”

He resisted the childish urge to throw the goblet in his face and settled for drinking more of the potion.

“Stop!”

Regulus’s arm froze in the middle of lifting the goblet, not only because of the cry, but also what he saw. Sirius’s body was overcome with shakes, and there was naked fear in his eyes. Cuts were beginning to form on his skin, which had lost most of the signature Black paleness and had acquired a light tan; blood beaded at the seams and trickled down his body, creating grotesque rivers of red.

“Sirius?” he asked, eyes wide.

“R-R-Re—”

“Sirius, what happened?”

His brother’s mouth kept moving, but no words escaped. Another figure stepped out from the shadows.

This was the most messed up family reunion ever.

“Hello, cousin darling,” Bellatrix purred, jabbing the tip of her crooked wand into the side of Sirius’s head. His brother gave a faint moan and slumped to the ground, unable to keep himself upright any longer. He was still shaking.

“Bellatrix?”

“You think My Lord wouldn’t discover your treachery?” she asked, sounding almost pitying. “He is more cunning and brilliant than you could ever imagine. You were a fool to think you could outsmart him. And your brother has paid the price of your folly.”

“Regulus, why?” Sirius asked from his place still sprawled on the floor of the island. “Why did you do this to me? How could you?”

Gentle, wrinkled hands placed themselves on his wrist and guided the goblet to his lips. He could barely feel the burn of it as he swallowed.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispered, tears gathering in his eyes.

Bellatrix threw her head back and laughed.

“Silly Reggie,” she said with a sharp-toothed smile. “Silly, Silly Reggie.”

Then she pointed her wand at Sirius and snarled, “ _Crucio_.”

“No!” he cried, but it was dwarfed by Sirius’s screams.

They were loud, so loud, the high-pitched wails echoing in the cavernous expanse. His brother writhed and flailed under the spell, cuts smearing blood on the rocky ground, head cracking back as he screamed and screamed and screamed.

Regulus felt like screaming with him, but he couldn’t, his voice couldn’t form the sound. Someone (Kreacher? Why was Kreacher there?) tugged a goblet to his lips, but even as he shook his head and protested, the contents were forced down his throat.

“No,” he moaned. “No, stop, I don’t…no more.”

“You must, Master Regulus,” Kreacher gritted out. “Kreacher is very sorry, Master Regulus.”

“Bellatrix! Bellatrix, stop! Please! Sirius—Sirius, I can, I can’t, no, no, no…"

Bellatrix was still laughing. Sirius was still screaming and thrashing on the floor.

Sirius had always been the brave one. Even when Mother slapped him and cursed him and shouted obscenities at him, he never faltered, staring at her with unrelenting hatred and stubbornness even as she raised her wand. The only time Regulus had ever heard him scream was the night he ran away, when for the first time, Walburga Black had held him under the Cruciatus.

The next morning, his room had been emptied and his presence was gone from the house; even his face had been burnt off the tapestry, leaving only an ugly smear of ash in its wake.

But even then, the final straw of years of mistreatment—he knew that now, accepted that now; it had been abuse, all those beatings and hexes and threats, but it had taken years to stop excusing her behaviour and their father’s condoning of it, and sometimes he still relapsed into the mindset of _we deserved it, he deserved it_ —Sirius had never screamed like this.

This…this was too much. Humans weren’t meant to be in this much pain.

As if his retrospective thoughts had summoned them, Orion and Walburga Black stepped out of the fog, strolling forward to flank Bellatrix on either side and sneering at their two traitorous sons.

“You could’ve been the best of us,” Mother crooned, approaching him and stroking his cheek with mocking reverence. “The perfect heir, the perfect son. And yet in the end, you threw that all away.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, face damp with tears. “I’m sorry, Mother. I’ll come back. I won’t leave you.”

She smiled, a slow, viperous smile. “Don’t bother.” The subsequent slap echoed through the cave, and stinging pain radiated from the side of his face. When he lifted his empty hand and pressed his palm to the area, he felt that her ring had sliced his skin, forming a cut that ran parallel to the hollow of his cheekbone.

“A stain on our legacy!” she screeched. “Filth! Burden! You are no son of mine! I should have thrown you out onto the streets with your pathetic excuse of a brother!”

“Disappointment,” Father said, looking down at him with cold grey eyes. “Disgrace. Unworthy of the Black name.”

He was still drinking. Why was he still drinking? He told himself to stop, told his helper to stop, but they wouldn’t stop. No one ever stopped, especially not for him.

“I’ll be better,” he vowed. “I’ll do better, Father. I’ll be an heir you can be proud of. I’ll—I’ll—”

The cacophony of sounds assaulted his ears; Bellatrix’s sadistic laugher, Sirius’s strangled screams, Father’s words of rejection, Mother’s crazed insults. Regulus sunk to his knees and squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his hands to his ears in an effort to drown out the sounds, but they only seemed to grow louder.

The goblet pressed against his mouth and he let the potion be poured down his throat.

Cold, gentle fingers wrapped around his arm, and he cracked his eyes open.

“Cissa,” he whispered.

Her pale, elegant face was hovering over him. One hand was on his arm, but the other was resting on her stomach. It was still flat, but he knew what that gesture meant.

“We were going to tell you,” she murmured. He wanted to reach out and lay her hand over hers, but he was too weak. “We were going to tell you. Reg, we were going to make you godfather.”

She was crying, and he was crying in earnest now, body wracked with heaving sobs as he cried, the taste of salt mixing with the bitter burn of potion.

 _Here is a brutal, ugly truth_ : he walked into the cave without intending to walk out.

The Dark Lord wouldn’t accept a resignation letter, and he couldn’t continue playing the role of a bigoted, mindless servant. There was no other way; death was the only solution, because the option of life was unacceptable. The Dark Lord would hunt him down upon hearing word of his betrayal, and even if he never found out, Regulus just couldn’t keep doing his bidding. With this, he could escape the Death Eaters, try to do his part in bringing Him down, and maybe find absolution for the sins he’d committed.

 _Here is another brutal, ugly truth_ : just because he wanted to die didn’t mean he didn’t want to live.

Regulus wanted so badly to live. It was how humans were wired; even at their lowest points, even when they stared death in the face and did not flinch, a deep-down part of them yearned to experience what life still had to offer.

He was only eighteen. It was never supposed to happen like this.

“Cissa,” he said, but she shook her head.

“Goodbye, Regulus,” she said, and then she was walking away, leaving him.

Bellatrix, Sirius, Mother, and Father disappeared with her.

“Sirius?” he called.

“Master Regulus,” Kreacher intoned, crouching down beneath him, “Kreacher has the locket.”

The locket. The horcrux.

He gripped the side of the basin with white-knuckled hands and hauled himself to his unsteady feet. Kreacher stared at him with bulbous eyes, clutching the chain of Slytherin’s locket. The fake was nestled at the bottom of the basin, indistinguishable from the real one his friend was holding.

“Good,” he said.

The potion was still burning and writhing in his stomach, but a new sensation was creeping up on him. His tongue was dry, and his throat was parched.

“Aguamenti,” he cast, shaping the syllables with his desert-like mouth, but the beautiful water that erupted from the tip of his wand disappeared as soon as it hit the goblet.

“Water,” he mumbled, looking around wildly. “Water…water!”

Of course. They were on an island in the middle of the lake. Holding the goblet in his hands tightly, he surged forward, staggering to the edge of the land and dropping to his knees.

“Master Regulus cannot!” Kreacher wailed, hurrying after him. “There be monsters, Master!”

“Water,” he repeated, dipping the goblet beneath the surface. Unlike the conjured water, it didn’t disappear, and he brought it to his lips, gulping down greedy mouthfuls. It was cold and refreshing, soothing the burn of the potion and dehydration.

Something wrapped around his wrist.

“Kreacher?” he asked, squinting at the foreign object. It was a hand, but it was larger than that of his friend, and slimy.

For a brief moment, his head cleared.

“Oh,” he said dumbly as he stared the Inferius in the face. Its features were sunken and gnarled, skin darkened and twisted until it was almost unrecognisable as a human, or the animated corpse of one.

“Master Regulus!” Kreacher screamed, but the rest of his words were lost as Regulus was pulled forward, the Inferius dragging him beneath the water. He hit the surface with a muffled grunt, coughing and choking as liquid slithered into his lungs. More Inferi swarmed him as he joined their midst, gruesome hands and limbs grabbing at his skin.

He clawed towards the land, kicking out his legs and flailing, trying to loosen their hold on him. Cold air assaulted him as he managed to get his head above the surface of the lake. Kreacher was standing frozen at the shore, still holding the locket horcrux.

“Kreacher!” he shouted, water dribbling from his lips, “remember my orders!”

His friend still dawdled, but his words were drowned by involuntary mouthfuls of water as the Inferi grabbed his clothes and pulled him downwards, forcing him beneath the water. The lake stung his eyes and nose, and even as he struggled and fought, his movements grew sluggish and weak. His wand was nowhere to be found, lost in the moments between being on land and being underwater.

 _This is what is meant to happen_ , he told himself sternly, wincing as an Inferi’s slimy, clawed hand dragged across his face and tangled itself in his hair. The air in his lungs was running out, and he knew he couldn’t escape to the surface again; he didn’t have the energy. _Kreacher is going to leave and destroy the locket and someone will kill the Dark Lord, and everything will be right in the world._

He just wouldn’t be there to see it.

But that was fine. Actually, it wasn’t fine, and he hated it and he hated the Dark Lord and his parents and Sirius and everyone in the world, but it would just have to be fine eventually.

Regulus closed his eyes and surrendered to the burning pressure in his lungs, the hands of the Inferi, the fate he both wanted and didn’t want at the same time.

The last thing he heard was a faint pop.


	2. not the afterlife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regulus wakes up, which was definitely not his intention, and has a lot of 'what the fuck?" moments.

He woke up in a warm bed, cocooned in soft blankets.

As far as afterlives went, especially the one he’d thought would await someone like himself, this wasn’t bad.

“Mister Black,” a voice he recognised from seven years at Hogwarts. “It appears you have quite the story to tell.”

_What the fuck?_

“Language,” the same voice said, sounding amused.

He opened his eyes and immediately closed them again, wincing at the harsh, burning white of his surroundings. Still, the presence of the old, wizened man sitting at his bedside was unable to be denied.

 _Dumbledore cannot be my afterlife_.

“Fortunately, I am not,” he said, sounding much more serious that time.

Regulus opened his eyes slowly, trying to adjust to the brightness of the room. When he tried to sit up, his muscles ached and his bones creaked, and it took an embarrassingly long time for him to manoeuvre himself into a sitting position.

“So,” he said, wincing at the lingering dryness of his tongue and throat, “I’m alive.”

Madam Pomfrey appeared at the foot of his bed, pinning him with a disapproving glare so familiar in its intensity that it made him wilt back. Sighing, she handed him a cup of water, which he wasted no time in draining.

“You’re alive,” she sniffed, “though it was a close call at some points.”

He nodded to himself, stretching out and cracking his fingers. The last thing he remembered was his presumed death (an eerie green glowing potion, the phantoms of his family, the locket, the Inferi that dragged him to a watery grave), but he was unnaturally sore.

“What date is it today?” he croaked out, licking his cracked lips.

Dumbledore levelled him with a blank look. “November 13th,” he said.

Regulus’s shoulders relaxed. He’d gone to the cave November 12th. The potion had just done a number on him, it seemed.

“1981,” his former headmaster added.

_What the fuck?_

Luckily, he didn’t say that one out loud. The abject horror must have shown on his face, because Pomfrey’s glare melted into a look of deep concern, and Dumbledore’s wrinkled features arranged themselves into one of sympathy.

“I don’t understand,” he said, feeling bewildered and upset and helpless and incredibly tired, despite having just slept for two years. “I…I don’t understand.”

“Your house elf brought you to us on November 16th, 1979,” Pomfrey explained. “It was very distraught and believed you wouldn’t survive without outside help. However, the potion you ingested was one of an unknown composition, and we had no cure for it. The only thing we could do was wait for it to leave your system, but even then, it put you in a coma, which you only just woke up from.”

He blinked.

“Okay,” he said, pinching his arm and frowning at the sting he received. “Not a dream, got it,” he muttered to himself, sighing and slumping back against his pillows. “Damn.”

“Mister Black,” Dumbledore said, “would you like to tell me what happened?” He gave him a significant look.

Pomfrey moved away, walking back to her office and leaving them alone.

Regulus sighed. “First, I should summon Kreacher, my house elf,” he said.

“Feel free.”

“Kreacher!”

There was a resounding crack and the house elf in question popped into existence beside his bed. Upon glimpsing his master, tired and weary but alert and awake, he let out a spectacular cry and threw himself at him, bony arms wrapping around his thin neck. Regulus let out a breathless laugh and returned the hug, patting the elf’s wispy head.

“I’m glad to see you too, my friend,” he murmured.

“Kreacher thought Master Regulus would die!” he wailed, tears dripping from his round eyes as he sat on the bedsheets, frail shoulders shaking.

Regulus bit his lip and gave the elf a look, which Kreacher returned, crossing his arms. In the corner of his eyes, he saw Dumbledore’s lips twitch, but he ignored him.

“Kreacher,” he said, drawing out his words, “I gave you clear orders.”

“Mistress Walburga gave Kreacher clear orders too,” he replied, tilting his pointed chin up with a gleam of defiance in his eyes. “She instructed Kreacher to watch over Master Regulus, so Kreacher did. Master Regulus never specified that his orders overruled hers.”

A lesser man would’ve rolled his eyes. Regulus just barely withheld the urge to do so. He was mostly mad at himself; he should’ve been clearer with his orders instead of leaving such a loophole.

“Let me guess,” he deadpanned. “My mother gave you those orders August 24, 1961.”

Kreacher averted his eyes. “She did, Master,” he said. Still, he sounded unapologetic.

Warm fondness bloomed in his chest, and he let out a quiet laugh. “Thank you, my friend,” he said, and meant it. Survival would pose quite a few problems, but he would just have to handle it.

Dumbledore cleared his throat and cocked an eyebrow.

“Kreacher,” he said, “would you mind staying here for a bit? I must inform Dumbledore on the circumstances of my state.”

Kreacher nodded his head, ears flapping with eagerness, shifting his position to lean against Regulus’s arm.

“Okay,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Where to begin…”

Dumbledore’s twinkling eyes flitted to his left forearm, where he knew the Dark Mark sat on his skin, an unremovable blemish. He winced and nodded.

“I was Marked in the summer before sixth year,” he said, taking little enjoyment in the slight widening of the older wizard’s eyes. “I was sixteen and terrified. It wasn’t entirely my decision; Sirius had run away the year before, and they were desperate to restore their reputation in the eyes of the Darker families. Throwing me to the Dark Lord solved all their problems, but it only exacerbated mine.” That was an understatement.

“At the time, since I still had the Trace on me, I didn’t partake in the raids and practical missions. But as soon as I turned seventeen, I was expected to attend them, and enjoy them. The first one I did, albeit reluctantly. The second one, I did not.”

“You doubted?”

“I doubted,” Regulus confirmed lowly. “In truth, I doubted for a long time before that as well. It’s hard to believe in pureblood supremacy when there are so many talented muggleborns and half-bloods walking the corridors of Hogwarts, and so many pitiful purebloods doing the same. Muggles solved my prejudice themselves by showing me how much they could accomplish, and how they weren’t much different to wizards after all. So, I doubted a lot. Still, I was too scared to defect, too determined to live up to my family’s standards and make them proud.” The words were bitter on his tongue, and his hands balled into fists.

“Then, the Dark Lord asked for the service of a house elf.”

Kreacher shuddered, and Regulus smoothed down his ears, taking in a shaky breath. “I was foolish. I offered him Kreacher, thinking it would make up for my lack of eager participation in the raids.”

“Master Regulus was right to do so,” Kreacher interrupted. “Kreacher could see how he suffered. Kreacher was eager to do what he could to help.”

When Regulus didn’t interrupt, content to let his friend tell his story, the elf continued. “The Dark Lord took Kreacher to a cave and forced him to bleed on stone to enter. We went across a lake and arrived on an island, which had a basin filled with green potion on it. The Dark Lord…” he gulped and shook his head, small fingers quivering. “The Dark Lord f-forced Kreacher to drink the potion. It made Kreacher see things, terrible things. The Dark Lord seemed to enjoy this. Finally, when the potion was gone, the Dark Lord placed a locket at the bottom and left Kreacher to die.”

At the mention of the locket, Dumbledore’s eyes grew even sharper and more attentive, leaning forward slightly to drink in the tale.

“Kreacher was so thirsty,” the elf croaked out. “Kreacher tried to drink from the lake, but monsters burst out of the water and tried to drown Kreacher. But Master Regulus,” and here he gave Regulus an adoring look, “had instructed Kreacher to return after completing the mission, so Kreacher was able to apparate back to his master.”

“I was horrified,” Regulus murmured, patting Kreacher’s back and taking over the story. “Kreacher told me everything, and I began investigating. Eventually, I arrived at the conclusion that the Dark Lord had made a horcrux.”

“Brilliant,” Dumbledore whispered, looking genuinely impressed. “Truly brilliant. To tell you the truth, Mister Black, I had arrived at the same conclusion myself.”

Regulus couldn’t help but preen at the praise before he continued. “Well, I knew it was vital that the horcrux was destroyed, so I got Kreacher to take me to the cave.”

There was a knot in his throat, and he took several deep, trembling breaths, trying to calm down his racing heart. Kreacher patted his hand with his, and he clung to him like a lifeline, images of the cave and the lake and the water flashing before his eyes.

“I drank the potion,” he finally said. “I saw…unpleasant visages. I had previously created a replica of the horcrux and Kreacher swapped it with the real one. Then, as I had previously ordered him, he left.”

His hands were shaking. He tried to hold them still, but it just made it worse.

“I tried to drink from the water to quench my thirst, but as Kreacher said before, I was set upon by Inferi. I was pulled beneath the water and…”

“Kreacher came back for Master Regulus,” the elf said, filling in the silence. “Kreacher brought him back to Grimmauld Place and hid him, trying to treat him. But he would not wake up. Kreacher did not want him to die, so he brought him to Hogwarts.”

“And then I woke up,” Regulus said, feeling rather faint, “two years in the future.”

Dumbledore nodded, fingers laced together in his lap. “That is quite the tale, Mister Black,” he intoned.

“I lived it, I would know,” he pointed out.

The other man chuckled.

“Are you able to bring me the horcrux?”

Regulus bit his lip and looked at Kreacher. The elf gave a jerky nod and apparated away; he returned only a few seconds later, clutching the familiar locket of Salazar Slytherin, which he wasted no time dropping in Dumbledore’s waiting hands.

“Filthy,” Kreacher muttered as he curled back into Regulus’s side. Considering the fact that he served the House of Black, famed for its Dark wizards and affinity for Dark Magic, that was saying something.

“Kreacher,” he whispered. “Mother might get suspicious. You can go now.”

He frowned. “You will be okay, Master?”

“I’ll be fine,” he hastily said. When Kreacher didn’t look mollified, he added, “I’ll call for you if I need any help.”

His friend nodded. “Kreacher is very glad Master Regulus is alive,” he said fiercely, hugging his arm one last time before apparating away. Regulus allowed himself a small smile at his loyalty before smoothing over his expression and locking eyes again with the professor.

“Regulus,” Dumbledore said, staring into his eyes and addressing him using his first name for the first time, “I believe you have single-handedly made the most progress in defeating Voldemort.”

Regulus fought the instinctive flinch at the use of the Dark Lord’s name but nodded, feeling a sense of tired pride.

“What is the current state of the war, Professor?”

“I am no longer your professor, Regulus,” he said mildly. “To answer your question…Voldemort is currently no longer a physical player. The war is over.”

The breath left his lungs.

_What the fuck?_

He’d thought that phrase a lot since waking up.

“It’s over?” he asked, hardly believing it. “It’s really over?”

Dumbledore nodded, but he didn’t look as pleased as he would’ve thought. “He was defeated on October 31st, 1981, two weeks ago, by Harry Potter.”

Regulus frowned. “Don’t you mean James?” Bitterness still laced his voice as he said the name.

“Harry Potter was born to James and Lily Potter on July 31st, 1980,” Dumbledore said in explanation.

“But he would’ve been a child!”

“It was a most peculiar thing,” Dumbledore acknowledged. “However, I believe it was his mother’s sacrifice that saved him that night.”

Regulus frowned but gave a slow nod. He didn’t fully believe that theory—surely other mothers would’ve died for their children at some point, but this phenomenon was unheard of—but it would work for now. “And James and Lily?”

“Dead.”

He had expected it from Dumbledore’s words, and he’d never been very close to either of them, but somehow it still hurt. James Potter, the messy-haired Chaser with lopsided glasses and a playful grin. Lily Evans-Potter, the fiery muggleborn who defied everyone’s expectations and rose above the masses.

They would’ve been 21, he realised. And now they wouldn’t be anything more than 21.

“Poor Sirius,” he said out loud. Dumbledore winced, a minute motion that he still caught, and the rest of the word threatened to fall apart around him.

“What happened?” he demanded, surging up off the pillow and staring him down. “What happened to my brother?”

“It’s less what happened to him and more what he did,” Dumbledore said, slow and careful.

“What do you mean?”

“James and Lily had reason to believe they would be targeted by Voldemort,” he explained. “They went into hiding with the help of the Fidelius Charm. Sirius was their Secret-Keeper.”

_What the fuck?_

The truth stared him in the face. Regulus refused to accept it.

“That’s impossible,” he said.

“I’m sorry, Regulus,” Dumbledore said. “He betrayed them, sold them out to Voldemort. When Peter Pettigrew confronted him, he blew up a muggle street, killing Pettigrew and twelve muggles with him. He’s in Azkaban serving a life sentence.”

“You’re wrong,” he said.

“I know this will be hard for you to accept—”

“I’m not accepting anything,” Regulus snapped, “because you’re _wrong_. Sirius wouldn’t do that. Potter was…Potter was his brother.” The words were like knives in his throat; that didn’t make them any less true. “Sirius would die before he betrayed him. I experienced his loyalty to him first-hand. You’re wrong. Sirius would never follow the Dark Lord.”

Dumbledore looked unconvinced. Regulus turned away, studying the wrinkles in the sheets with obstinate determination.

“What are your plans going forward?” Dumbledore asked, mercifully letting the subject rest for now.

Regulus blinked. “To be honest, Professor, I don’t have any.” The fact that he’d intended to die in the cave remained unspoken but lingered in the air between them, a cold, unforgotten truth. There was an incredibly sad quality in Dumbledore’s eyes that he chose to ignore.

A part of him wondered how many bright, clever, eager students the man had outlived.

“I suppose,” he said, turning his gaze to the future he’d never expected to live to see, “I would have to be pardoned by the Wizengamot. And then, well, perhaps a life of politics as Lord Black. Helping round up the remnants of the Death Eaters and eliminating the influence of their ideology.” He shrugged.

Dumbledore hummed in thought. “Tell me, Regulus: have you ever considered a career in teaching?”

_What the fuck?_

“I can’t say I have,” he said, flat and careful.

“Professor Slughorn has expressed an interest in retirement,” he said. “I had another candidate in mind, but alas, he perished in the war. I recall you had a particular knack for Potions, Regulus.”

His head was spinning. The white burned his eyes.

“I’m literally a Death Eater,” he pointed out, pulling his left arm from beneath the blankets and tugging up the mangled sleeve of his stolen sweater. The Dark Mark was there, but the intense black shade he remembered had dulled into a greyish smear, likely due to the Dark Lord’s death. But it wasn’t just the faded Mark that made him pause.

He had scars. He’d had some before the excursion, faint lines and shadows from long-healed cuts and grazes, following the curves of his delicate bones and limbs. But now there were masses of dark, raised pink lines crawling up his skin, jagged slices along his arm and looping around his wrist. Regulus looked at his other arm and saw the grotesque, web-like pattern mimicked. He had no doubt that if he looked into a mirror, he’d see scars on his chest and legs as well.

Not his hands, somehow. He ran his fingers over the skin of his face, shoulders slumping in dull relief when he felt nothing but smooth skin. His feet were devoid of marks as well, and so was his neck, bar the edges of one that poked at his collarbone.

“I’m sorry,” Dumbledore murmured. “Dark wounds leave scars.”

The old man had no idea how true that was.

“It’s fine,” he said, shaking his head and blinking. “Back to the whole _I’m an actual Death Eater_ thing.” He gestured at the Mark. “And you’re offering me a _job_?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore said, sounding far too cheerful for the matter.

“Why?”

The cheer faded.

“It is deeply impressive that you uncovered his secret to immortality,” Dumbledore said, “and that you managed to acquire a Horcrux. But do you truly believe Voldemort would’ve been content with just the one?”

His stomach dropped.

“No,” he breathed, but even as he said it, he knew the old man was right.

The Dark Lord wouldn’t have stopped at one. In his blinding arrogance and hunger for eternal life, he would’ve gone further, even when the Darkest tomes advised against it. Regulus had never even thought about it, never considered the possibility, because it was just ludicrous. To spilt one’s soul more than once was unthinkable.

He imagined if he had died in the cave, stupid, blind Regulus, believing he’d taken out the Dark Lord’s anchors when in reality he’d only made a dent.

“How many?” His voice sounded faint even to his own ears.

“Seven is the most powerful magical number,” Dumbledore said gently.

If that man (was he even a man anymore?) had gone as far as to split his soul into eight pieces, storing seven of them in containers…Regulus swallowed the acrid bile that had begun to crawl up his throat.

“You want me to help you,” he said, the pieces coming together at last.

Dumbledore nodded, adjusting his half-moon glasses. “You have accomplished much; if we joined forces, we could ensure that Voldemort will never return to threaten our world again.”

Regulus nodded. Peace for the world—that was all he’d wanted when he’d thrown himself to the mercy of fate in the cave. Peace, so that children wouldn’t have to grow up to be soldiers, sacrificed to bloodshed on both ends of the warfront. Peace, so that people weren’t being killed for things they couldn’t control. Peace, so that there would be no more tiny, unsure Regulus Blacks being led astray by the very people who were meant to protect them.

“I’ll do it,” he said. “I’ll be your Potions Master.”

Dumbledore brightened and straightened up, getting to his feet. “Excellent!” He punctuated this with a clap of his gnarled hands. “Horace is able to stay on for a few more school years, so you’ll begin in 1984. In the meantime, we will arrange your pardon and related legalities, and you can adjust, prepare for your new profession, and our hunt for the horcruxes.”

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I,” Regulus sighed, casting his eyes to the ceiling.

The other man didn’t answer, just began whistling a jaunty tune as he strolled out of what he now recognised to be Hogwarts’ Hospital Wing.

Him, a Hogwarts Professor, a Potions Master. Mother would be scandalised.

Shit, Mother. Father. Bellatrix. Narcissa. Even Andromeda, because these days he didn’t have much family left, and he was sick of letting stupid things like blood purity get in the way of cherishing the remains of the House of Black.

“Kreacher!”

Regulus had work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm trying this thing where i stay three chapters ahead of the one i post, so as y'all read this i have up to chapter five ready and am about to start on chapter six! 
> 
> anyway i hope you guys kind of liked this. hope your holidays are going well, and you are staying safe and healthy <3


	3. the in-between years, pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regulus learns about what happened when he was asleep, mourns the people he lost to the war, and reconnects with what's left of his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in-between years refers to the years in between when regulus wakes up and when regulus starts teaching at hogwarts. there's only two chapters of this before we get into ye olde professor black :D

Being pardoned by the Ministry was surprisingly easy in the end.

It helped that he’d been underage when taking the Mark, so the fault of everything lay on the shoulders of his parents, who were no longer alive to face the requisite punishments.

He’d found out immediately after departing from Hogwarts, Kreacher apparating him into his bedroom in Grimmauld Place and nervously wringing his small hands.

“What is it, my friend?” he asked with a frown, sitting down on his bed.

“Master Regulus should know,” the elf said, shoulders slumping, “that Master Orion and Mistress Walburga are no longer present.” There was a thin sheen of tears in his eyes.

“Oh,” Regulus said, staring down at his hands.

He didn’t know how to feel. Emotions had never been his strong suit, a symptom of growing up in a largely loveless household. Orion and Walburga had been at least partially responsible for almost all of the problems in his life; logically, he should discard them like yesterday’s newspaper, throw them in the trash and rejoice their passing and move on with his life.

They were terrible, terrible people. They had forced him into serving a madman for the sake of their silly reputation. They had tortured his brother and abused the both of them.

But they were still his parents, and a tiny, naïve, childish part of him still wanted to make them proud.

“Okay,” he said, shaking the thoughts from his head. “Thank you, Kreacher.”

Maybe it was for the better that they weren’t there to experience the loss of another son.

It certainly made his life easier, having the house to himself. He wasted no time in tearing down the veritable shrine of newspaper clippings about the Dark Lord’s activities from the wall and ridding himself of the silver mask and black robes he’d worn as a Death Eater. When he was done, the room looked less like the hideaway of a bigot and more like it could belong to a normal child.

The Slytherin memorabilia he left up, because he believed his house could stand for more than evil.

With him being Marked at sixteen, the information he gave about the Death Eaters and crimes he’d encountered, and Dumbledore writing a letter in support of his defection and its validity, the jury of the Court of Magical Law voted to issue a Ministerial pardon excusing him of his crimes—murder, torture, and being an accomplice to such deeds. It had been hours of sitting and sweating in a prisoner’s iron chair before the gathered officials, feeling like a child playing dress-up in the suffocating black shirt buttoned up to his throat and robes he could’ve sworn used to belong to his father.

In the end, a month after waking up to a new world, he walked out of the Ministry a free man.

And with that freedom came the ability to buy a new wand without being arrested. His original one had been lost in the cave, falling out of his hands and disappearing in the mess of murky water and moving dead bodies. Neither he nor Kreacher wanted to ever return to that place. He mourned the loss of his wand, an extension of his arm and conduit for his magic, the wand that had been at his side ever since he was a trembling eleven-year-old, but he also had a sneaking suspicion that it wouldn’t work for him anymore anyway.

He was a very different person to who he was at eleven, after all.

“Regulus Black,” Ollivander said, peering at him with his wide, foggy eyes. “I have been expecting you.”

“Um, thanks,” he replied. “As you can likely tell, I’ve lost my old wand, and am here to acquire a new one.”

“Hawthorn and unicorn hair, 10 ½ inches, supple,” the wandmaker mused. “I’ll admit, I was surprised when it selected you, but with recent developments the reason is obvious. I think this wand will be a good fit.”

He reached out and picked up the wand from its place nestled in the velvet-lined box. As soon as his fingers made contact, heat surged up his arm. He slashed it through the air and let out a delighted laugh as green and gold sparks erupted from the rounded tip, just like they had when he was young and free.

“Willow and unicorn hair, 12 inches, reasonably supple,” Ollivander said as Regulus examined his wand. It was a lighter, colder-toned brown compared to his darker, warmer hawthorn wand, but he felt the same comforting warmth when he held it in his hand, fingers curling around the rod of smooth, polished wood. “A wand with much potential to do good in the world.”

He gave a rueful smile. “Let’s hope it’s picked its owner right, then.”

Ollivander’s gaze was piercing. “I believe it has. Goodbye, Regulus Black. I’m interested to see what you can do.”

 _So am I_ , he thought as he disapparated home.

Regulus wasted no time in redoing 12 Grimmuald Place as a whole, cleaning out the shelves and cabinets and handing in cursed objects to Curse-Breakers. The row of decapitated house-elf heads was removed from display after a few token protests from Kreacher, and all the dark, dreary decorations and wallpaper was changed.

He was still a Slytherin at heart, so the green theme remained, but he removed the on-the-nose black touches, so that the place could look less like his childhood prison and more like somewhere he could envision himself building a life within. In the end, he settled on a colour scheme consisting of a variety of greens, from pale mint to deep forest, with silver accents.

It would never be strictly welcoming, but he found himself sleeping easier in his new surroundings.

Mother’s wailing portrait, which he discovered when he walked downstairs from his bedroom and encountered it in the hallway, was taken down and moved to her and Father’s former bedroom after much cajoling and him pointing out how she would no longer have to be bothered and could enjoy the familiarity; it helped that he neglected to mention his defection and blood traitor actions, so he was still the good son in her eyes.

Having been asleep for two years, he also asked Kreacher to get him the newspapers from the time period and also reinstate the subscription to the Daily Prophet, which had been cancelled during Mother’s tenure as the lone, deteriorating resident of Grimmauld Place. What he found wasn’t to his liking.

No wonder Dumbledore and the rest of the Light had been so relieved to have been saved by the miracle Potter child. In 1981, before the fateful Halloween night, the war had shown no signs of stopping. Blood was spilled from both sides in battle after skirmish after night-shrouded confrontation. Bile burned at the back of the throat as he read about the conflicts and casualties, the relief that oozed from every inked word when news broke of Harry Potter’s feat.

Then his eyes caught onto a particular article and his heart stopped.

**ATTACK ON THE LONGBOTTOMS: CROUCH’S SON ARRESTED!**

_Barty._

His eyes scanned the article, gradually growing wider. Bellatrix, the two Lestrange brothers, and Barty had been caught torturing Frank and Alice Longbottom just days after Halloween. The couple were now in St Mungo’s, having been driven insane by prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus. The foursome’s trial would be in 1982; his had only been so soon because Dumbledore had ensured it was fast-tracked through the legal system.

Regulus set down the newspaper on the table but couldn’t tear his eyes away from the photo emblazoned on the front page, beneath the damning headline. It was Barty, because he was the real scoop; Bellatrix, Rodolphus, and Rabastan were known members of Dark, Death Eater-aligned families. But he was the son of Bartemius Crouch, the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, the ruthless pursuer and persecutor of Dark forces.

In the mobile image, he was being dragged away from the Longbottom Manor by Aurors, handcuffed and thrashing wildly in their grasp. Regulus pressed his nose to the paper, staring into Barty’s eyes. They were blue and blown out wide. His black hood had fallen off, and his straw blond hair was messy and wild, falling across his pale, freckled forehead. Barty’s mouth was open in a silent scream.

He just barely made it to the toilet before the contents of his breakfast came up to meet him.

The last time he had seen Barty was the day before his venture into the cave. They were both intellectually minded, so neither had been heavily involved in the skirmishes and practical endeavours of the Death Eaters. Barty had swung by Grimmauld Place while his mother was having tea with an associate and his father was on a business trip, and they had sat together on his childhood bed and reminisced about Hogwarts. Barty had been smiling, head thrown back in laugher, gangly limbs sprawled out on his sheets, a high pink flush dusting his cheeks.

His best friend. Barty had been his best friend. And now he was sitting in a cell in the Ministry, destined for life in Azkaban.

What had happened to him? The Barty he’d known was always a bit of a hothead, energetic and aggressive, but not to those levels. Not to Bellatrix’s levels.

(Was it him? Had his disappearance, presumed death, pushed Barty over the edge?)

(Could he ever forgive himself if that was true?)

He pointed his new wand at the newspaper. An Incendio rose to his lips, but he didn’t even to speak; non-verbal casting had always been a speciality.

Fire roared from the tip and set the paper alight, black curling at the edges, until it was nothing but ash and smoke.

Regulus turned away, the photo of Barty seared into the crevices of his mind, and forced himself to get down to work.

Since he was now able to walk around Magical Britain without a hoard of Aurors descending on his person, he focused on the rest of the things he needed to get sorted before starting his position at Hogwarts (even thinking about it was strange—he was only 20!).

To teach Potions, he would need a mastery in the subject.

Luckily, Regulus had always had a knack for Potions, both in terms of pure enjoyment and skill. He’d maintained straight O’s without putting in much effort, unlike some of his other subjects where he’d had to pore over books for nights on end, and had obtained a N.E.W.T. in Potions with ease.

The course was two years long and saw him spend a lot of time digging out dusty books out of his house’s library and shutting himself in his designated brewing room, bending over a boiling cauldron with stacks of ingredients and glass vials to his side and fumes drifting to the ceiling. He’d always been something of a swot, and found studying for his Potions Mastery _fun_. Sirius would be scandalised.

Merlin, Sirius _._

Dumbledore had been right. Sirius had been found laughing his head off in the middle of a blown-up street mere days after the Potters had been killed, muggle bodies strewn around him. The only part of Pettigrew they’d found remaining had been his finger. Aurors had carted Sirius off to Azkaban at wand-point and he was sentenced to life in the horrible institution.

He was still in disbelief. Sirius had been so Gryffindor, so _good_. He still remembered him and James Potter strolling around Hogwarts, thick as thieves, the closest of friends. Sirius had abandoned him for the bespectacled boy. Why would he throw that all away to side with the Dark Lord? When had his views begun to align again with those of their parents? It didn’t make any sense.

The part of him that longed for his brother back whispered, _because he didn’t do it._

But then that lead to the question of why he’d kill Pettigrew and blow up the street.

There was no one else James and Lily Potter would’ve made their Secret-Keeper.

There was no one else who could’ve sold them to the Dark Lord.

And Regulus was _tired_. He’d nearly died, expected to die. He’d given so much and lost so much to the wretched war. His childhood, gone. His innocence, gone. Two years of his life, gone. His closest friend, gone. His family, in tatters and disrepair. He couldn’t bring himself to try and defend the case of a man he hadn’t really spoken to in years, a man he didn’t know anymore. War changed people; somewhere along the line, when Regulus hadn’t been looking, it had changed Sirius. That had to be the answer.

That lingering, childish part of his heart still whispered protests, whispered _he would never_ , whispered _he loved Potter like a brother_ , whispered _he’s innocent_. He had a feeling the doubts would never fade, but he resolved to ignore them.

It was funny how things had turned out; Sirius a convicted Death Eater and murderer, set to spend the rest of his life in Azkaban enjoying the company of the joyless Dementors, while he walked free, able to do everything he wanted to do.

That wasn’t quite the truth. After all, he couldn’t have his brother back, and what use was freedom when he couldn’t have the thing he most wanted?

Regulus burned the newspaper he’d found that showed Sirius being dragged away in chains and turned his focus to the family he could still be with.

 _Cousin Andromeda_ , he wrote with shaking hands, _I would love to visit you and your family one day. If you would have me, please enclose your address. Love, Regulus._

He’d wanted to write more, wanted to apologise for standing aside and doing nothing when the Blacks had thrown her out and his mother had blasted her from the tapestry, wanted to ask if she’d ever suspected that Sirius would do such a thing, but when he went to write it out in ink, the quill wouldn’t form the letters, and he’d ended up throwing away the bunched-up parchment and starting anew. Words on a page couldn’t express everything he wanted to say.

 _Reg,_ she wrote back the day after he sent off his new owl, a screech owl aptly named Mercury, _I would love to have you visit and meet my husband and daughter. I’ll see you tomorrow._ The underlying message was clear; if he still hated muggleborns and blood traitor children, he wasn’t welcome.

Regulus arrived at the door of a quaint, cosy house in a Somerset village home to wizards and muggles alike. Ivy crawled up the wooden arch above his head and flowers sprouted from the boxes beneath the windows, while grey smoke curled up from the brick chimney. Feeling very out of place in his long-sleeve black collared shirt and jeans, he knocked on the wooden door and twisted his fingers.

Andromeda didn’t leave him waiting for long, flinging the door open a few seconds after he made his presence known and standing in the doorway, the two estranged cousins looking at each other and drinking in the changes time had made.

He hadn’t seen her since he was eleven, watching with wide eyes as his mother burned her tiny portrait from the family tapestry and forbade contact with the newly anointed blood traitor. Nine years had traced minute wrinkles and laugh lines onto her pale face. She looked older, more mature, and more self-assured, standing with a straightened back and confident air. He was taller than her now, but not by much.

Her resemblance to Bellatrix was initially off-putting, but surface-level; her hair was brown to Bellatrix’s black, though it was no less curly as it framed her oval face, and her grey eyes were softer, kinder.

The most notable difference was the child standing at her side, hair going through all the colours of the rainbow as she craned her neck to look up at him.

“Hi,” Regulus said, waving and feeling enormously inadequate. “Um…it’s been a while?”

Something broke in Andromeda’s face and she careened forward, crushing him into her arms. He wrapped his own around her waist and buried his face into her shoulder, breathing in her earthy scent.

“I missed you,” she whispered.

“I missed you too,” he replied.

Eventually, with much reluctance, they separated. The girl—Andromeda’s _daughter_ —seized the opportunity to come bounding up to him, tugging at the sleeves of his coat.

“Hi, mister!” she said in a bright, bubbly tone. “I’m Tonks! I heard you’re my mum’s cousin! That makes you my uncle, right?”

“Uh, I suppose so,” he said, taking a small step backwards. “I’m Regulus. Nice to meet you, Tonks.”

Patting the girl on her currently lime green head, he raised his eyebrows at his cousin and mouthed, _Tonks?_

Her husband’s surname was Tonks. What could the girl’s first name be, that she refused to even use it? Surely it wasn’t that bad.

“This is Nymphadora,” she said, rolling her eyes.

Never mind, that _was_ that bad.

The judgement must’ve shown on his face, because she huffed and wacked him lightly on the arm. “Don’t overwhelm your uncle, Nymphadora. He’s not very social.”

She pouted but released her hold on his clothing and returned to her mother’s side. “Nice to meet you, Uncle Reg,” she said again, before sprinting off. He heard her footsteps thundering up the stairs.

“She’s…something,” he commented, smoothing out the wrinkles in the fabric. “I didn’t know she was a Metamorphmagus.”

“Trust me, it was a surprise to us as well,” Andromeda chuckled. “It must be a recessive gene. Come on, Reg, come inside.”

The interior of the home was just as vibrant and welcoming as the exterior. He settled in a cushioned armchair by the roaring fire as Andromeda bustled off to get food and tea, warming his gloveless hands near the flames.

“You’re the elusive cousin, are you?”

Edward Tonks sat in a chair at the dining table and set down his newspaper when Regulus took his seat. He had a mop of tawny brown on his head, a few awry strands sticking up and dangling over his eyes, and freckled light brown skin. The man exuded an aura of joyful acceptance; he could understand how Andromeda could grow to love him.

“That would be me, yes,” he responded. “And you’re the elusive husband.” He got up from where he’d been sinking into the chair and extended his hand. “Nice to finally meet you, Edward Tonks.”

He gripped his hand in his. Regulus could feel the callouses on his palm. “Please, call me Ted,” he said. “Dromeda was over the moon when she heard about your pardon, and when you reached out to her.”

Regulus slid into a chair beside him. “I was a bit worried she’d turn me down,” he admitted. “We haven’t seen each other in years, and the last time she would’ve heard of me or seen me, I was still very much entrenched in You-Know-Who’s ideas.”

Ted shook his head. “You’re family,” he said simply, glancing above them where he assumed Nymphadora’s room was. “And you must’ve changed for Dumbledore to vouch you. She was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, and you’ve been good so far. You initiated a handshake with a muggleborn, so you can’t be too particular about blood purity these days,” he pointed out with a loud laugh.

“You’re right,” he said, the beginnings of a smile flickering on his lips. “I’d like to say I’ve changed for the better.”

“And I’m eternally glad for it,” Andromeda said, walking into the room holding a plate of biscuits and a cup of steaming tea which she set down in front of him, “because it means you can be with us today. I really have missed you.”

“It’s been a while since we last saw each other,” Regulus said, after giving his thanks for the hospitality. “You have a lovely home.”

They exchanged an affectionate glance. “It’s the exact type of place I’d want to raise my daughter in,” Andromeda gushed. The warmth cooled as a serious look overcame her sharp features. “Reg, I can’t believe what happened with Sirius.”

He busied himself biting into a biscuit and staring into his tea. “Neither can I,” he murmured, stilling his trembling hands on his thighs. “He was supposed to be the good one.”

“I didn’t see him often after I left,” she said, “but we exchanged the occasional letter, and he came over once when Nymphadora was a baby. I never would’ve guessed he’d turn to You-Know-Who. I suppose that just shows you how well I knew him.”

He let out a strangled laugh. “Then I knew him even less,” he said, moulding his fingers around the hot teacup. “I just want to know why he did it.”

“War makes people do terrible things,” Ted said, unnatural solemnness on his face.

“Thank Merlin it’s over,” Andromeda said.

“Cheers to that,” Regulus said, taking a sip of the tea. “Maybe now we can move on.”

“What do you think you’ll do, Regulus?” Ted asked, tilting his head to the side.

He coughed. “Dumbledore actually offered me a job,” he disclosed.

Andromeda’s eyes widened. “You mean, as a professor?” she demanded. When he nodded, she let out a delighted laugh, shaking her head fondly. “Oh, that’ll be brilliant. Are you starting straight away? I wasn’t aware you got a mastery in a subject before things started taking off.”

He shook his head. “I’m starting in 1984,” he told them. “I’m in the middle of getting my Potions Mastery; old Sluggy’s wanting to retire, it seems.”

“Our Dora’s starting that year,” Ted said with a wide grin. “She’ll be delighted to have her Uncle Reg as a teacher.”

“You really think I’ll be decent at it?” he asked, shifting in his seat, eyes tracing the dark jagged lines peeking out of his sleeves.

“I have no doubt you will excel in the position,” Andromeda said, reaching out to pat his shoulder with gentle firmness. “You’ve always loved Potions, Reg, and I know your temperament. You’ll be good with the kids, and good with the Slytherins.”

“What do you mean?”

“I assume you’ll be made Head of House,” she pointed out. “Since Slughorn’s retiring.”

His shoulders drooped; he’d forgotten to panic about that little snag. “Is it too late to turn Dumbledore down?” he asked with an air of melodrama.

Ted laughed. “Good luck with that,” he said. “The man doesn’t seem the easiest to reject.”

“You can say that again.”

While the prospect of being the Head of Slytherin was terrifying and daunting, it actually aligned well with his goal of preventing more impressionable young people going down the path he’d gone down. As the Head of House, he’d have easy access to the Slytherins, who were the most vulnerable to being swayed by Death Eater sympathisers and their ideology.

Andromeda must’ve known what he was thinking about, and what he wanted to do—she’d always been shrewd and clever, a textbook Slytherin no matter what Bellatrix and Mother said—because she gave him a smile.

“You’ll be good at it, cousin,” she said, and he allowed himself to believe her.

When he left the Tonks’s abode, the sun was setting, and his belly was filled with warmth, not just from the food and tea but the pleasant company. A small piece of his broken family clicked back into place. The first thing he did when he returned to Grimmauld Place was reverse the burn on the tapestry, restoring Andromeda’s woven face. He blasted Bellatrix off for good measure, memories of torture and laughter and her silken whispers in his ear flickering in his mind as her portrait was erased.

His eyes fell on Narcissa’s place on the tapestry, bonded to Lucius Malfoy with a tiny gold string leading downwards to a smaller figure, a child: Draco Malfoy.

_“We were going to tell you. Reg, we were going to make you godfather.”_

He shuddered and cast the unwanted memory to the side.

It would be nice to pay Narcissa a visit. She had always been his favourite cousin.

This time, he arrived at a much different house to the Tonks’s domestic countryside dwelling. Malfoy Manor loomed tall, pale and proud ahead of him, much like the people it housed. Albino peacocks wandered around the grounds, and he smiled at the irony as he walked through the wrought iron gate and down the path to the double-door entrance.

Narcissa greeted him in a manner similar to Andromeda, though she was much more proper about it, folding him into a hug and squeezing him gently in her arms. She hadn’t changed since he’d last seen her, blonde hair pulled into a sleek bun and tired relief in her blue eyes.

“It’s so good to see you, cousin,” she murmured as they broke apart and she led him to the living room.

Lucius was there when they arrived, and their eyes locked as the other man looked up. Regulus didn’t break eye contact as he sat down in an armchair, Narcissa sitting an equal distance from both of them with a wary press of her lips.

“Regulus,” Lucius said, inclining his head. “It is good to see you well.”

“Good to see you too,” he said, careful to reveal nothing from the tone of his voice. He found himself missing Ted Tonks and his carefree openness. A house elf popped in, levitating three cups of tea which they deposited in front of them. Regulus left his untouched.

“How have you been?” Narcissa asked, breaking the unsettled silence. “ _Where_ have you been?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I thought they said in the Prophet—I was sick and unconscious. I only awoke last month.”

“They say you defected,” Lucius interjected.

“They say you were under the Imperius,” he replied, leaning his weight against the armrest.

Lucius relaxed. “Sometimes people must do things to survive,” he said, taking a sip of his tea.

“I’m afraid you misunderstand me.”

The pale-haired man stiffened. “Excuse me?”

“You misunderstand me,” Regulus repeated, letting a slow smile unfurl on his face. He didn’t elaborate, but by the way Lucius’s knuckles whitened and shutters closed over his grey eyes, he knew what he meant.

“You mean to say…” Narcissa whispered, her words hovering in the tense silence.

Dumbledore had broached the idea of him pretending to have defected and trying to ingratiate himself within the ranks of Death Eaters who pleaded the Imperius and went free or sympathisers who were unable to be implicated, but he’d shot it down almost immediately.

He had almost died (wanted to die) to escape the Dark Lord’s service. He would rather die than go back to that time, that person. Dumbledore hadn’t pushed it after he pointed that out.

“The Dark Lord was wrong,” he said.

“Regulus!” Lucius cried, blood draining from his already pale face until it was positively ghostly.

“What? He’s not here to torture us for disobedience,” he said. “He was wrong, plain and simple. I realised that too late.”

When both of them refused to speak, preferring to stare at him with wide, fearful eyes, he sighed. “I’m not going to try convince them to arrest you, and I’m not going to cut off all contact. You’re family, and that’s the most important thing.”

Some of the tension drained out of the stiff line of Narcissa’s shoulders. Lucius still eyed him with caution but gave a short nod.

The ensuing conversation wasn’t as light-hearted and warm as his one with the Tonks’ had been, but it was nowhere near antagonistic. Both Malfoys were pleased to hear he was going to take up a teaching position at Hogwarts, and Narcissa assured him he would suit the role.

Lucius elected to be the one to walk up to the gates. The awkward silence was broken when they arrived; the other man took a deep breath and stared him in the eyes.

“I urge you to reconsider this decision, Regulus,” he said. “I know you’ve always been…soft-hearted…but this attitude will win you no favours with the others.”

The other Death Eaters who had escaped Azkaban.

“That’s convenient,” he replied, letting ice creep into his tone, because Lucius was not the cousin he’d adored since his youth, “because I don’t intend to win favours with them. I urge _you_ to reconsider your views, Lucius, without the Dark Lord looming over your shoulder and threatening you with the Cruciatus. I find my mind much clearer when I’m not bound to serve a madman.”

With those parting words, he turned on his heel and returned to Grimmauld Place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope everyone had a good christmas, despite the very un-festive vibe of these past holidays!
> 
> i wanted to briefly touch on regulus's response to sirius's imprisonment. in chapter two, when dumbledore tells him about it, he's certain he was wrong and that sirius wasn't to blame. here, his reaction is much different, and i know it seems quite jarring compared to how adamant he'd been before. regulus's reaction here is one tempered by loss. he's lost his parents (shitty as they were, they were still pieces of him), he's lost his best friend, he's lost literal time. he's more awake and aware now, and logic dictates in this situation that sirius was guilty, because james and lily would never pick anyone else as their choice of secret-keeper.
> 
> i've tried to strike the balance between that war-tired view of "okay sirius must've just changed when i was unresponsive and nearly dead because everything seems to be pointing in that direction" and "what the fuck sirius would never." it's a very thin line and regulus, as i hope you could see, is quite torn up about what's right and what's not.
> 
> anyway, i hope the rest of 2020 goes well for all of you! :)


	4. the in-between years, pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regulus continues to spend time with his family, continues to think about the people he lost, and goes on a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi y'all this is the last part of the little bridge between waking up and teaching. next chapter we're diving into professor reg territory!

Lucius never confronted him about that again. Whenever Regulus swung by Malfoy Manor, mostly to visit Narcissa, the man tended to try and avoid him as much as possible, and he always had a contemplative look on his face. A sense of superiority was ingrained in his bones, but Regulus held out hope that he could at least see sense about the Dark Lord’s gruesome method of buying into that sense of superiority.

Narcissa preferred to steer clear of any mention about the war and war-related topics, and they chatted about the weather and his ongoing mastery course and him finding a partner (which always elicited a dramatic shudder from him and a calculating smile from her), and Draco, Narcissa’s tiny platinum blond-haired child.

In a strange fashion, his potion-induced hallucination ended up coming true. Lucius and Narcissa had named Severus Snape, a thoroughly unpleasant fellow with a knack for Potions in the year above him at Hogwarts, Draco’s godfather, but Snape had been killed in a skirmish with the Order only months after the boy’s birth, so the two decided to instate him as Draco’s godfather despite his quiet protests.

“Nonsense, Regulus,” Narcissa snapped when he tried convincing her against it. “I would trust no one else to look after my baby boy.” Even when he tried to talk to Lucius, he would hear nothing of it, saying it was Narcissa’s decision and he supported her.

There was, of course, an ulterior motive beyond him being a loyal cousin: he was protected by Dumbledore and therefore by the Light Side. If there was more conflict, Draco would likely be safe no matter who prevailed.

Draco was still a baby, born June 1980, but he smiled when Regulus said hello and held him at Narcissa’s behest, so he took that as a sign of approval. The child really was adorable, and as he rocked him to sleep, humming a spontaneous tune under his breath and ignoring Narcissa’s soppy smile, he silently vowed at Draco Lucius Malfoy would never have to go through what he went through.

His visits to the Tonks household also continued. Andromeda also loved to comment on his eligibility and lack of romantic partner; when he commented on her similarities to Narcissa in that regard, instead of being offended, she adopted a mournful, sentimental smile.

“Don’t worry,” she said, waving off his frantic apologies. “I just…miss her.”

“I know how you feel,” he murmured, and they sat in solemn solidarity, two people unable to reach their beloved siblings because of the stupid war and the stupid divides it created within families.

He found himself striking up an unlikely friendship with Ted, who was a Quidditch enthusiast like himself. He’d been the Hufflepuff Seeker while at Hogwarts, though their tenures on their respective house teams had never coincided, so they quickly bonded over their love of Seeking and interest in the Quidditch league. Andromeda liked to complain about being outnumbered by sport fanatics; her daughter had been converted by them and had taken to begging for a broomstick of her own.

Nymphadora still had an adorable tendency of leaping on him when he visited and talked at length about her love for her “Uncle Reg.” Since she would begin Hogwarts at the same time as him, she was eager to do well and kept bugging him and her parents for magic tips. She was an exhausting whirlwind of a child, and he prayed to whatever otherworldly bodies were listening that she wouldn’t be put in Slytherin for her sake as much as his, but he never failed to entertain her meandering rambles.

One day, after attacking him, she stared him in the face and told him, in a very serious and solemn voice, “Uncle Reg, you need to come up with a nickname.”

“For you?” he asked, blinking.

“Yes!” she demanded, stomping her foot for emphasis. “Mum calls me Nymphadora,” the child explained, nose scrunching up, “and Dad calls me Dora. You’re a part of the family, _Uncle_ Reg, so you need a nickname for me. A Reg-only nickname.”

 _Part of the family._ He resisted the urge to burst into tears right there and then, and instead put his mind to thinking.

“Why can’t I just call you Dora?” he offered.

She shook her head, sending her now-purple hair flying. “Nope. No can do. Family needs a special nickname. My name, my rules.”

“Fine,” he conceded, frowning. “Nymph, then.”

She vetoed that one as well. “ _Bor-_ ing! I thought you were brainy, Uncle Reg. Plus, Grandpa and Grandma call me Nymph, so it’s already taken.”

An idea came to mind. “How about Adora? It’s quite similar, but I think it’s sweet.”

“Aww,” she cooed. “’Cause you _adore_ me, right?”

“Of course not,” he sniffed, sticking his nose in the air. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Adora.”

His put-on prissiness shattered into genuine panic when she started bawling. “If the name offends you that much, I can just call you Nym, or something,” he rushed. “Oof!”

She’d thrown herself at him, tackling him to the floor, still crying. “You’re so _adorable_ , Uncle Reg,” she wailed, with giggles interrupting the sobs.

Andromeda then walked out of the kitchen to meet them, confused as to why the customary greeting was taking so long. She took one look at his frantic expression and the child happily crying in his arms, shot him a smile and thumbs-up, and walked back out.

 _Traitors everywhere_ , he thought as he hugged Adora. This betrayal, though, he could deal with.

“You’re good with kids,” Ted said one day when Adora tired of the adults and ran up the stairs two at a time to take refuge in her room.

Regulus choked on a mouthful of biscuit and descended into a coughing fit. “Not really,” he said, cheeks red.

“Really,” Ted insisted. “Dromeda, Reg’s good with kids, isn’t he?”

“Absolutely,” his traitor of a cousin said as she entered the room and sat by them. “Come on, Regulus, you’re going to be a teacher! This is a good thing.”

“I guess,” he mumbled, shrugging.

Her grey eyes softened. “You’re not like them, Reg,” she said.

He shifted in her seat, hating how easily she had read his misgivings for what they were. “I know,” he replied.

“I don’t think you do,” Ted drawled, catching onto his wife’s meaning. “I never met your parents, but if they were anything like Dromeda’s folks, they would’ve been downright nasty. You’re not nasty. You’re nice, and humble, and gentle with Dora. That makes all the difference.”

“Imagine if Nymphadora accidentally knocked over a vase,” Andromeda said when he remained silent. “Would you hit her? Would you hex her?”

“No!” he cried at once, aghast. Adora’s cheerful, smiling face flashed before his eyes. He imagined her in his place in his childhood, cowering away from a snarling, spitting mother, huddling with Kreacher with bandages plastered across her cheek. “I would never!”

She leaned back, satisfied. “I know,” she responded. “That’s how I know you’re nothing like Orion and Walburga Black. You’re better.”

“I wasn’t always,” he whispered.

Ted shrugged. “And? You’ve changed. You’re better _now_. It doesn’t matter who you were back then.”

“How can you say that?” he demanded, standing up from the chair. “I hated people like you. My friends would call them slurs in the corridors and hex them and I wouldn’t do anything to stop them. I joined a cult of torturers and murderers who hunted muggleborns and muggles for sport.” He ripped up his sleeve and exposed his faded Mark. Andromeda sucked in a harsh breath, which he ignored as he barrelled on. “What makes you think I’m any different now? What makes you think I deserve any sympathy or understanding?”

Ted remained unmoved by his spiel, save for the slight widening of his eyes when he’d pulled up his sleeve. “Because you defected,” he said. “You realised that what you were doing, what you were condoning, was wrong, and you tried to make amends. Because you’re sitting at a mudblood’s dining table, drinking their tea and eating their food. Because my half-blood, blood traitor child throws herself at you whenever you step through the door, and all you do is laugh and listen to her talk.”

“Don’t call yourself that,” he said, feeling very faint, as he lowered himself back into his seat.

His fluffy eyebrows sprung up. “What? A mudblood? I’m a muggleborn, I think I’m allowed.”

Regulus stared at the Mark. “You really think I’ve changed?”

“I know you’ve changed,” Ted said, and that was that.

In a cliché sort of way, his shoulders felt lighter, his world less muddled and uncertain. Ted was one of the people he had scorned and hurt along the way, and still there he was, forgiving him. Welcoming him into his home. Letting him play with his daughter.

It felt good. It felt right. It told him that what he was doing, what he wanted to do, was worth it.

“Regulus,” Andromeda said, inching over to his side and laying a careful hand on his arm, just below the dark stain of his past. “What happened?”

Her fingers traced one of the lumpy scars, and the air fled his lungs. In his eagerness to brandish the Mark, he’d forgotten about them.

“Nothing,” he tried, but both Tonks’ were unimpressed.

“Is this part of the reason why you disappeared for two years?” Ted asked, frowning.

“…maybe?”

Andromeda’s grip on his arm tightened. “What happened?” she repeated.

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” he mumbled, looking anywhere but at their concerned faces.

She withdrew her hand. “Okay.”

He blinked. “That’s it?”

“Yes,” she said, nudging his shoulder with hers and giving him a small, fond smile. “Until you’re ready, that’s it.”

Regulus gave both of them a tight hug before he left. “Thank you,” he said.

_Thank you for believing in me. Thank you for trusting me. Thank you for forgiving me. Thank you for letting me do things, say things, at my own pace._

“That’s what family’s for,” Ted said, clapping his shoulder and grinning.

“We’re always here for you when you need it,” Andromeda murmured in his ear as they parted.

This was what family was always meant to be: quiet talks by the fire, loving acceptance, hugs for the sake of showing affection rather than for formality’s sake. Never curses and bruises and handprints on the side of his face, never knowing all the ways to avoid the squeaky floorboards, never flinching at the slightest movement.

He fell asleep that night with a smile on his face. For the first time in a long time, no demons awaited him in his dreams.

1982, thank Merlin, passed with relative normality. There were sullen whispers from the Dark Side, the Death Eaters who avoided Azkaban trading words and grievances, but there were no attempts to break the fragile peace. Regulus visited his cousins and their families, worked towards his Potions Mastery, and read books in the quiet cover of his family library, lamplight casting shadows on his face and Kreacher snoozing at his side.

The only blip in his peace was the only Death Eater trial he cared about, and even then, he couldn’t bring himself to get worked up about it, because the outcome was essentially pre-determined. He could’ve gone, sat himself down in the spectator seats and watched the world fragmet around him, and he’d been tempted to, but in the end, the reminder that it wouldn’t just be Barty—that Bellatrix would be there—put him off.

Regulus had never been eager to face Bellatrix before, and that was when they were on the same side, when he was not a turncoat and she was not set for a Dementor-guarded cell.

Barty’s distressed, crying face as he was dragged away after the trial was plastered on the front of the Daily Prophet the day after the verdict. He would live out the rest of his many days in Azkaban; he’d been caught red-handed, and Crouch Senior couldn’t afford to be soft on his son for arguably the most heinous of war crimes.

“Why did you do it?” he asked the picture. He imagined his Barty, reclining casually in the chair across from him, blue eyes bright and mouth set in a wide grin, chin resting in his propped-up hand as he listened to another of Regulus’s tangents.

But the illusion broke almost immediately, because he could never dream of his Barty doing such a deed. His Barty had died long ago. His Barty might’ve died when he almost did.

Regulus threw the paper in the trash on his way out, not bothering to read the rest of it. There was no point; the tear-stained ink had muddled and run already.

Life went on, as it was wont to do. Regulus spend his days alternating between his cousins’ houses, Diagon Alley, and Grimmauld Place. Nymphadora rambled on about her newest venture, and Draco crawled after him and babbled in his babyish language about nothing in particular. He tried not to think about the two people he loved most, rotting away in Azkaban.

He considered trying to visit Sirius on his birthday in November—Barty’s January birthday had already passed, and the boy had spent it in a Ministry holding cell—but he just couldn’t bring himself to do so. It was too soon after the war ended for a pardoned Death Eater to visit his convicted Death Eater relative, and it was too soon for him to see his brother’s face. Regulus resolved to do it at a later year and settled for getting drunk on Sirius’s birthday and crying all his repressed feelings out on Sirius’s childhood bed.

1983 arrived, and with it, the completion of his Potions Mastery. The final test of his abilities and whether he deserved the award was when he presented a summary of his journey and working before a panel of judges from the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers.

“But the recipes you use are not always the standard ones, Candidate Black,” a man with a long winding grey beard said after he finished talking about his final brewed potion.

Regulus grinned. “That was my next point of discussion, actually,” he said. “I’ve found, after looking closer at the formulae of some potions, that the textbook procedures don’t always produce optimum results. For example, when cutting Sopophorous beans in the potion I just discussed, the Draught of Living Death, as the textbook instructs you to, crushing the bean allows you to collect more juice, producing a more potent potion.” He went on to describe other alterations he made, such as adding additional ingredients and stirs to counter potential side-effects and achieve a faster, stronger result.

In the end, he passed his final presentation with flying colours, and changes were made to the Potions textbooks, including the ones he planned to use with his future students, with all credit going to him.

Perhaps this was not entirely fair, because he knew he was not the only one who’d made these discoveries and hoarded this knowledge. But Severus Snape was dead; he was not the future Potions Master, and he was not the one who was going to preside over students he wanted desperately to succeed.

Thank Merlin he wasn’t going to be the Potions Master. The man had always been a bit too attached to Lily Evans Potter; he might’ve even turned traitor and gone to Dumbledore, who would’ve surely offered him the post. Regulus still had lingering doubts about his ability to teach well, but he knew he would be leagues ahead of Snape’s hypothetical performance. Severus Snape was talented and knowledgeable, but also nasty, abrasive, and impatient. He’d probably do something stupid, like insult and torment the kids.

Regulus banished the thoughts of the Snape menace from his mind and focused on celebrating his achievement. He’d always wanted a Potions Mastery, having been enraptured by the area of magic since his youth, but with the war and his role in it, he’d resigned himself to not seeking out his dream.

Another reason the Dark Lord had to stay gone; people deserved to be able to follow their dreams.

He made the rounds to Narcissa and Andromeda, accepting their congratulations at his achievement, before retiring to Grimmauld Place to celebrate on his own.

“Next year, I’ll be the Hogwarts Potions Master,” he told Kreacher, testing out the syllables in his mouth.

“Master Regulus will do a fantastic job,” his house elf said firmly. They were sitting in the armchairs in the library; Regulus was clutching a half-empty bottle of Firewhiskey in his hand.

“What if I make a mistake?” he wondered out loud. “What if I mess up the brains of the next generation?”

“Master won’t make a mistake,” Kreacher replied with a twitch of his bony shoulders.

“But what if I _do_?” He waved the Firewhiskey in the air for emphasis. Kreacher sighed and snapped his fingers, summoning the bottle and bringing it out of reach. He gave his friend a wounded look which the elf ignored.

“Master won’t,” Kreacher said, and that was that.

The doubt and uncertainty continued to plague him. Perhaps that was the reason for his distractedness months after the bestowal of the mastery, or perhaps it was just a coincidence of fate. He’d just been to Gringotts to have a quick look at the Black family portfolio, the money, investments and properties he now possessed as Lord Black, and had decided to take a look at Flourish and Blotts when he bumped into someone.

Regulus winced as a shopping bag tumbled to the ground and books spilled out onto the streets. “My sincerest apologies,” he said, cheeks tinged red as he bent down to help them clean up. Pale, nimble fingers joined him, and together they stacked the books back up in the bag.

“It’s not a big deal,” they said. There was a pause. “Hold on—you’re Regulus Black!”

He bit back a groan and straightened up. “Yes, that’s me,” he replied, bracing himself for the barrage of Death Eater-related insults and shrieks. They’d mostly faded as the later months of the previous year, 1982, rolled in—unlike some other former Death Eaters, he didn’t swan around with his nose in the air bragging about his wealth and prestige, preferring to keep his head down and finish his business as quickly as possible—but the odd cry of “DEATH EATER SCUM!” wasn’t unheard of.

“My dad’s been talking about you for weeks!”

Of all the things he’d expected, that wasn’t it.

Maybe her dad was one of those people in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement who had argued against his pardon?

Since he wasn’t immediately being set upon with hatred, he took the time to familiarise himself with the person he’d bumped into. She looked around his age, with light brown hair that fell to just below her fair-skinned shoulders and large blue eyes, which were staring at him in awe.

“Your dad?” he repeated dumbly.

Soft pink lips curved into a wide smile. “He works at Merge Books,” she explained. “They’ve been having to reprint lots of copies of Advanced Potion-Making so that they have your changes to the formulae. I don’t know whether he’s annoyed at the extra work or impressed that you corrected Libatius Borage; I think it’s probably both.”

Not here to call him a filthy, morally bankrupt coward then.

“Um, thanks,” he said, for lack of any other reply. “I apologise to your father, then.”

She laughed, a bright, tinkling sound. “I accept it on his behalf,” she said.

They dawdled there for a moment, Regulus resisting the urge to wring his hands, before she blinked and exclaimed, “Silly me! I haven’t even introduced myself yet!”

Still smiling, she held out a hand. “I’m Elodie Lewis,” she said.

He shook her outstretched hand. “Regulus Black,” he said, before remembering she’d recognised him and called him by name. “Sorry, you already knew that.”

She laughed again. “No need to apologise.”

He glanced at the stream of witches and wizards around them, and in unison, they shifted closer to the edge of the footpath.

“What brings you to Diagon Alley, Regulus Black?” Elodie asked.

“Business at Gringotts,” he said with a slight grimace. “Apparently, being the head of the family comes with lots of responsibilities. Who knew?”

Humour wasn’t a strength of his, but she let out a little giggle, so he took that as a win.

“What about you, Elodie Lewis?” he asked.

In reply, she gestured at the bag of books held low in one hand. “A love of books runs in the family,” she said. “Also, I’ve been dying for an excuse to grab food in Cardin Alley. Home cooking’s good, but there’s only so much of my dad’s shoddy attempts at pancakes I can take before I get some weird strain of food poisoning and keel over.”

Regulus nodded in understanding. He certainly didn’t relate, since Kreacher was an excellent cook, but if he was forced to make food for himself, he’d probably mess something up within the week.

Elodie shifted her weight to one leg with a forced-looking air of indifference. “Say,” she began, tilting her head to the side, “you don’t have any plans for lunch, right?”

Technically, he’d planned to eat at Grimmauld after stopping at the bookshop, but he sensed that saying that would be a massive mistake, and he was trying to make less of those these days. “No,” he said instead, arching an eyebrow.

She took a deep breath. “Doyouwanttohavelunchwithme?”

Whatever sentence she’d planned, it came out in a jumble of sounds and syllables, from which he couldn’t parse a meaning. “I beg your pardon?”

Her cheeks turned bright red. “Do you want to have lunch with me?” she repeated, trying to space out each word.

Warmth flooded to his face, and he clamped his mouth shut before a strangled, panicked sound escaped. His heart had sped up and was now thudding, slamming against his ribcage. He could see Elodie growing increasingly nervous, teeth worrying at her bottom lip and fingers twisting together, but every time he went to answer her, the words got stuck in his throat, his buzzing brain failing to command it out.

“It’s okay if you don’t,” Elodie said when a few charged minutes had passed, shoulders creeping up and eyes fixed on the ground. “We only just met, after all. I’m sorry for being a bit, uh, forward.”

That snapped him out of his funk.

“No, no, I’m sorry, I’d love to have lunch with you,” he hurried to say. “I just panicked and forgot how to speak, sorry.”

The tension drained from her body and her blue eyes snapped to his, lighting up. “Really?”

When he nodded, she let out a tiny shriek of excitement and grabbed his hand. The contact surprised him, but it wasn’t unwelcome, her soft fingers wrapping around his wrist. “Come on, then! I saw this fantastic new place in Cardin!”

Trying and failing to fight back a smile, Regulus let Elodie drag him down the length of Diagon Alley and around the bend that lead to a primarily food-based shopping area branching off of the main wizarding hub.

Cardin Alley was filled with people, owing to the lunchtime rush. Whenever the Blacks had deigned to eat at one of these locations, they had always dined at one of the elegant, elaborate, and expensive restaurants located further down the alley. Elodie, however, lead him towards a small café, which looked to be newly established.

“The Cheesy Centaur,” he read off of the sign hanging above the entrance.

“You never know until you try it,” she said, noticing the dubious glint in his eye.

The Cheesy Centaur turned out to serve delicious food and tea, though the presence at the other end of the cosy two-person table they’d chosen would have made mouldy bread taste heavenly in his mouth.

Regulus couldn’t help but marvel at his luck; he’d crashed into a witch in the busy, bustling Diagon Alley like an absent-minded fool, and instead of cursing out his past mistakes, she invited him out for lunch.

“You’re staring,” that very witch pointed out with a small, fond smile.

He blinked and realised he was holding a limp sandwich in his hand, and his mouth was slightly ajar.

“Sorry,” he muttered, a furious blush rising on his face.

She laughed, stabbing a piece of pie with her fork and bringing it to her lips. “I don’t mind,” she replied with a teasing grin. “Stare all you want, Regulus.”

He choked on a mouthful of bread and roast chicken, and she laughed again. Regulus wasn’t fond of humiliating himself in front of other people, but if it made Elodie Lewis laugh, he’d do it a million times.

When he could hold a conversation without staring or breaking off to perform some intricate monologue in his mind, they got to proper talking. Elodie, he learned, was a year younger than him, making her 21, and had been a Hufflepuff at Hogwarts.

“No wonder we never crossed paths,” he commented.

“You’d be surprised.” When he raised his eyebrows, frowning in confusion, she explained, “I saw you at the library sometimes. We never talked, but I still noticed. You kind of scared me, actually, all old and smart and Slytherin.”

Having graduated from Hogwarts, she was now on her final year of the four-year apprenticeship course as a Trainee Healer and was set to graduate in November, only two months away.

“Have you always wanted to be a Healer?” he asked, trying to make it sound as off-hand as possible.

Elodie stared into her empty teacup. “No,” she eventually replied. The word was so heavy, so loaded with history. “I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life until 1976 came.”

His mouth was dry. 1976 was when the war had started to intensify.

“My mum died that year,” she revealed, quiet and solemn. “It wasn’t planned or anything. A group of them attacked Diagon Alley and she was caught in the crossfire. I was fourteen. It was…” she let out a humourless laugh. “It was hard, really fucking hard. My dad was a wreck. I was just angry. But then I got tired of being angry, and then I was just sad.”

“I know a lot of people wanted to become Aurors because of the war, and for a while, so did I. But being angry is so _exhausting_. That burning fire, that ceaseless raging against the world and its injustices—some people like that, some people can keep up with that, but I couldn’t. I still can’t. So, I decided, instead of going after the people who killed my mother, I would try and stop other kids from losing their mothers.”

There was a long, pregnant pause. Regulus didn’t know what to say. _I’m sorry for your loss? Sorry for, you know, being an ex-Death Eater and being in league with the people who murdered your mother?_ It didn’t feel right.

Elodie sighed and slapped a hand to her forehead. “I’m so sorry,” she mumbled. “Fuck, that’s the worst thing to talk about on a first date. I had this whole plan, I was going to talk about my apprenticeship and the books I liked and crack some jokes and stuff, not talk about my dead mother and career sob story.”

Her other hand was resting on the table. Channelling his inner, depleted stores of courage, he reached out and laid his hand over it. She started and met his gaze.

“Don’t apologise,” he said softly. “I want to hear about your life, the good and the bad. And…I really am sorry about your mother.”

She flipped her hand so that their palms were touching and interlaced their fingers. “You weren’t there,” she said, words firm and lined with steel. “You didn’t cast the spell that killed her.”

The Dark Mark was dormant after the Dark Lord’s defeat, but phantom pains ran up the nerves of his arm. “I was one of them, though,” he pointed out, throwing first date etiquette out the window.

“I know,” she said, offering him a small smile. “Trust me, your trial was splashed across the papers. I went into this knowing you used to be one of them. But more importantly, I went into this knowing you defected, that you didn’t want to be a part of it. People make mistakes. You were so young, Regulus.”

“I should have known,” he whispered. “I should have gotten out in time.” The _I should have been like Sirius_ got lodged in his throat, because in the end, Sirius hadn’t been better, either.

She squeezed her hand. “You were so young,” she repeated. “If anyone’s to blame, it’s your parents. You shouldn’t have had to be responsible for running away.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“It’s an explanation,” she countered. “You got out in the end, didn’t you?”

He couldn’t speak, so he just nodded.

“I’m a muggleborn,” she revealed. “Both my parents are—were—muggleborns, so that means I am as well. I didn’t know you in Hogwarts, but I knew of you. If you hadn’t changed since then, if you still believed in the Death Eater ideology, you would tear your hand away, leap out of your seat, and run out of here. You would’ve asked me for my blood status before agreeing to come with me. But you didn’t, and you’re not running.”

Regulus was reminded of Ted.

Two muggleborn Hufflepuffs, forgiving him for his past misdeeds.

Did he deserve it?

The question must have shown clearly on his face, because she answered.

“Personally, I don’t care much for the question of if people deserve things or not,” Elodie said. “You might deserve my forgiveness, you might not. Who determines if you deserve something or not, anyway? I forgive you. That’s what matters.”

Emotion choked his throat.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, the words almost imperceptible, nearly lost in the rush of noise around them.

“You’re welcome,” she replied. “Merlin, we’re really going for the hard-hitting topics today, huh?”

He chuckled. “Quite the unconventional first date.”

“Well, we’re quite the unconventional pair,” she pointed out, grinning. “I like it. I think it suits us.” She froze, pausing. “There is an ‘us,’ right?”

Regulus almost knocked over his teacup in his panicked haste to nod. “Of course,” he said. “Unconventional as this was, I enjoyed it. I would love to, ah, continue seeing you in the future.”

“Fantastic.” Her smile was blinding in its brightness, blocking out the rest of the world with its light, until the only thing he could see was her face.

Their hands were still joined together on the table. He never wanted to let go.

The first thing he did when Elodie checked the time and had to rush off home to her father was apparate to the Tonks household.

“Regulus!” Andromeda exclaimed when she opened the door. “This is an unexpected surprise. Please, come in.”

He hurried to the dining table, breathless adrenaline pounding in his veins.

“I think I have a girlfriend,” he declared when Ted and Andromeda were both looking at him.

His cousin made an unintelligible screeching sound and immediately pounced on him. “What’s her name? Do we know her? Is she pretty? Oh, Reg, this is brilliant! I always thought it was such a shame you weren’t interested in that stuff.”

“Her name is Elodie Lewis,” he replied, pride blooming in his chest. “I don’t think you’ll know her, she was a year below me in Hogwarts, so quite a bit below you two. She’s…beautiful.”

“You sound infatuated already,” Ted smirked.

He flushed. “Maybe I am.”

“Lewis,” Andromeda mused, eyebrows creeping higher. “I don’t recognise that name.”

Her question was clear.

“She’s a muggleborn,” he said, relishing in the surprise on their faces. “A Hufflepuff muggleborn. Her parents are both muggleborns, as well.”

The glee was swiftly replaced with terror as Andromeda sniffed and threw her arms around his neck.

“Oh, Reggie, I’m so proud of you,” she murmured. “I knew you’d changed, but this…this is more than I ever expected. I’m _so proud_.”

Ted clapped him on the shoulder. “Another Black shacking up with a muggleborn, eh?” A wide grin split across his face. “Walburga’s probably rolling in her grave right now.”

“Good,” Regulus replied, thinking of Elodie’s beaming face. “Let her.”

He considered telling Narcissa as well, but his other cousin was not quite as accepting of muggleborns as her sister. Maybe one day.

The next time he saw Elodie was a week after their initial meeting and date. This time, she came to Grimmauld Place and met Kreacher.

Regulus marvelled at the change in the elf as well. Under Walburga’s command, he had spat slurs along with her, but time and age had changed his behaviour as well. Kreacher was nothing but polite to Elodie when greeting her, never calling her that awful word or muttering about filth tainting the family.

“What do you think of her?” he asked when she left after dinner. They’d spent the day lazing in the library, exchanging book suggestions. He loved to devour non-fiction, books about different areas of magic and magical history, while she was partial to the fictional tales of heroism and lands far, far away. Regulus came away with a list of stories he ‘simply had to read.’

“Miss Elodie makes Master Regulus very happy,” Kreacher noted.

“Is it that obvious?” he asked, face red.

“Yes,” his elf deadpanned, smiling. “Anyone who makes Master happy, Kreacher approves of.”

A weight he hadn’t even been aware of lifted off his shoulders. Kreacher was his oldest, closest friend. If he hadn’t liked Elodie, he wouldn’t know what to do.

“And…you don’t care that she’s a muggleborn?”

Kreacher shook his long-nosed head. Walburga Black’s hovering glare, her insidious influence, was gone “Master Regulus has shown Kreacher many things,” he said. “Master is Kreacher’s first priority. Kreacher does not care that Miss Elodie is not a pureblood. Kreacher only cares that she is a good witch who cares about Master Regulus.”

Tears burned in his eyes, and he gathered the elf into a gentle hug.

“Thank you, my friend.”

Yes, 1983 was a good year.

He still didn’t visit Sirius in Azkaban. He couldn’t help but wonder if it would always be too soon. But his brother was locked away, and Regulus wasn’t. He couldn’t let all the what ifs keep him from living.

(What if he’d gone with Sirius that fateful night? What if he’d never gone to the cave and reconciled with Sirius? What if he’d noticed the Order member in the Death Eater ranks and stopped the Potters from dying?)

~~(What if Sirius didn’t do it?)~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk how to write romancey things AT ALL so i'm lowkey using this as practice, but don't worry, it's not gonna overtake the rest of the story or anything. it's a romantic subplot, not the focus of the fic - that's still regulus and his adventures as potions master instead of sn*pe. 
> 
> also i've tried to hint at the past, unresolved bartylus that i indicated in the tags, and i'm def gonna make that more explicitly romantic in the chapters to come because i too hate when people just leave it vague. my regulus is bisexual for no reason other than i'm bisexual and i like projecting onto fictional characters :D just thought since i was rambling about romance in this story that i might leave a note about that.
> 
> also ik me just hand-waving kreacher's views is kind of a copout but here's my cobbled together explanation: kreacher's state which we see in canon came after over a decade of being alone in a house, his favourite master dead, his family gone, stuck with a wailing bitch of a portrait and a malignant horcrux & unable to fulfil regulus's last orders to destroy it. this warped his mind and voila canon kreacher. here, he hasn't gone through all that, and he's had regulus to gently nudge him out of the blood purity and such. look i really just didn't want to have to deal with that so i just hand-waved it okay lmao
> 
> thank you for reading! also i don't really edit these chapters before posting bc i'm just that type of person so please please point out any typos or continuity errors!!!


	5. welcome to hogwarts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six years ago, Regulus walked out of Hogwarts a freshly-graduated man.
> 
> Now, he's walking into Hogwarts a Professor.
> 
> It's only slightly terrifying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> love how it took four chapters to get to what the summary of the story actually talks about lol. here you go - professor reg, everybody!

“Lids, I can’t do this.”

“I don’t think you have much of a choice,” his ever so lovely, kind, sweet, and supportive girlfriend pointed out as she poured herself another glass of elderflower wine. “Plus, you start work _tomorrow_ , so you can’t back out now even if you wanted to.”

He pouted. She remained unmoved.

“Elodie,” he whined.

He was lying sideways on one of the plush, emerald green couches in Grimmauld Place’s living room, head pillowed in Elodie’s lap.

It was August 31st, 1984, and Regulus was _so_ unprepared to be a teacher. He’d voiced this sentiment many times before, but he felt the need to reiterate it.

She patted his head and let out a low laugh. “Don’t worry, Reg,” she said, taking a sip of her wine. “You’ll be great at it. And if you’re not, you’ll learn how to be great.”

Slughorn had said a similar thing when he’d gone to visit and subtly beg for advice. Regulus, who didn’t like to not be immediately good at something, didn’t find it very helpful, though that might’ve been because his old professor had held him back for hours to discuss the latest news and developments in his life and Magical Britain.

“What if I blow one of them up?”

“You mean the _kids_?” When he gave a mournful nod, she started laughing in earnest. “Then Madam Pomfrey will just patch them back together. Don’t get too hung up on potential futures, Regulus. Focus on doing the best you can.”

“Okay.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve got this. I can do this.”

“That’s the spirit.” Her fingers wove through his dark curls of hair, and he calmed under her touch. He always did.

For some inane reason, he’d expected them to drift apart after the first few days. In his darkest daydreams, she stared at the Mark on his arm with nothing but disgust and walked out the door in a manner achingly reminiscent of a boy who’d once done the same long ago, or she realised he wasn’t worth the effort and just stopped owling, or she was dead with the Dark Mark hovering over the ruins of her house (the war was over, but for how long?).

But then days turned to weeks turned to months, and still she stayed at his side: lying sideways on his couch complaining about the ending of a book, face-down on his kitchen table with a cup of steaming coffee in her hands and bags under her eyes, sitting in a chair still dressed in her work uniform and sharing funny little anecdotes about the patients she’d encountered on the fourth, spell damage floor of St Mungo’s. She even met Andromeda and Ted, in his awkward, my-parents-are-dead-and-my-brother’s-in-Azkaban attempt at doing a meet the family scenario, and they got along swimmingly; especially her and Ted, as they bonded over their proper pureblood partners, though she and Andromeda found common ground in their love of Herbology.

When he woke up gasping for breath with phantom hands grabbing at his limbs, she didn’t run away, instead letting her voice guide him back into awareness. When she cried for the patients she couldn’t save, the mother she couldn’t save, he held her hand and whispered of the people she had saved.

Somewhere along the way, Elodie Lewis had carved out a place in his life, and he didn’t want her to leave.

The words were at the tip of his tongue, but even with her hands running through his hair and her warm legs beneath his head, her quiet confidence cloaking him, he couldn’t form the shape of them with his mouth.

Regulus closed his eyes and let her ministrations lull him to sleep.

When he woke up, he found that Elodie had shifted him to his bed and left a note on the dining table wishing him luck for his first day; she’d had to rush off to St Mungo’s for her early morning shift in all her full-fledged Healer glory.

Feeling very much like he was going to his doom, Regulus wolfed down breakfast and put on a pair of black robes, cloak linked at his throat with a silver clasp and flowing down his back to just barely brush against the floor.

“Regulus Black’s Office, Hogwarts,” he declared to the roaring green fire before stepping in.

The whirling sensation of the Floo fell the back of his mind as he was spat out in his very own office, stepping out of the fire and brushing off the ash and lint that had fallen onto his clothes.

Kreacher appeared at his side a moment later, having gone first to check in at the Hogwarts Kitchens, where he’d be working while Regulus was at Hogwarts. After all, there was nothing left for him at Grimmauld Place. The elf patted him on the knee and wished him luck before returning to the other house elves in the castle.

The professors were meeting in the staffroom, and he hastened to get there, footsteps echoing in the empty corridors as he walked. Nervous anticipation thrummed in his blood, while memories of the past came rushing to the front of his mind.

Regulus didn’t like to think about his time in Hogwarts too much, because all it did was make him sad, make him miss the easier times when he laughed with his friends and the war wasn’t there to meet them and stifle their youth. But it was impossible not to reminisce when he walked through the halls he had walked through years ago, passed the classrooms where he’d said spells with his words and then his mind and watched beautiful, magnificent things happen.

He had smiled there. He had laughed there. He had wanted to cry there. Every inch of Hogwarts was covered in history, every ashen classroom door, every uncovered window, every crack and crevice in the stone walls.

Regulus closed his eyes.

He was eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, walking between classes with a growing weight on his shoulders and his best friend at his side. He was waving his wand and levitating a feather with wide, innocent eyes. He was glaring at his brother as they passed each other in the hallway, red and green ties on display, stark against white shirts.

Regulus opened his eyes.

He was 23. He was a teacher. He was war-worn and exhausted. Barty and Sirius were both in Azkaban.

The door to the staffroom swung open at his light push and he walked inside, the stone gargoyles letting him pass without incident. Here, at least, was once place his younger self had never had an opportunity to touch, to taint.

“Ah, Regulus,” Dumbledore said, waving a wrinkled hand. “Please, sit down.”

Feeling painfully awkward and out of place, he pulled out one of the dark wooden chairs and sat down at the large circular table in the middle of the room. Most of the other professors were assembled already; he could feel McGonagall’s piercing gaze boring into the side of his head as he pretended to examine the rest of the room.

Finally, a woman with wild grey hair wearing bright-coloured clothing decorated with eccentric jewellery hurried into the room, sitting down in the only free chair on the other side of the table. He didn’t recognise her, so he assumed she was another one of the newer hires, arriving after his graduation.

“Welcome!” Dumbledore declared, standing at the head of the table. “It is that wonderful time of the year again, when we welcome in another group of students, and have the pleasure to continue to teach many others.”

“This year, we also have a new professor entering our hallowed halls. Despite his youth and apparent inexperience,” Regulus held back a wince, because he wasn’t wrong, “I believe him to be firmly capable to do his duties. Many of you here at this table have taught him before, so I trust you recognise him. To those who did not and do not, I would like to introduce you to our new Potions Master and Head of Slytherin House: Regulus Black!”

Dumbledore made a grandiose hand gesture in his direction to complete the end of his spiel. Blood rushed to his face, and he gave an awkward wave.

“Er, hello,” he said when the old man gave him a pointed stare. “I’m…looking forward to working with you?”

McGonagall—was it Minerva now? Merlin, that would be weird—sniffed and looked away. Sprout gave him a warm smile, while Flitwick nodded.

Fortunately, Dumbledore moved on from him and moved onto the rest of the agenda. Regulus learned that the woman he hadn’t recognised was Sybil Trelawney, the Divination teacher. There was also Ralf Emerson, the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, but he wouldn’t be staying on long; there hadn’t been a Defence Professor who lasted more than a year for a long time.

The Headmaster went over numerous things which he didn’t have to worry about, such as spare textbooks and scholarships. When Regulus was asked about the ingredients in his classroom, he said that they had been replenished according to the budget, and he’d personally paid for the ingredients in his personal stores as well. He was left alone after that.

“Black,” McGonagall said, words sharp and severe, when they were packing up after the conclusion of the meeting, “a word?” She didn’t give him time to accept or decline, instead turning on her heel and marching off to her office and leaving him saying a quick goodbye to Dumbledore and hurrying after her.

“I don’t trust you,” she said bluntly when they had arrived. She moved to stand behind her desk and stare at her with a narrow-eyed glare. “Albus informed us all of your Mark and history as a Death Eater. He seems to believe you have truly changed and defected. I have trouble doing the same.”

“I don’t expect you to believe me straight away,” he said in what he hoped was a placating tone. “I simply hope that I can convince you over time.”

“See that you do,” she said, and he knew he was dismissed.

The rest of the day passed in a blur until the Welcoming Feast at 7pm. Regulus forced himself to eat with the other professors in the Great Hall for lunch, ignoring McGonagall’s intense stares as he shovelled pie into his mouth and thought of the crowded Hogwarts Express rushing across the United Kingdom at that very moment with a jolt of painful nostalgia.

Eventually, Flitwick took pity on him and dragged him into a conversation about the coming year. Regulus gave non-committal answers, hoping his nerves didn’t shine through on his face.

At 7pm, he sat down with the rest of the staff at the High Table, awaiting the steady flow of students as the Hogwarts Express pulled into Hogsmeade Station. He pictured the tiny first years sailing across the lake, though he banished the image from his mind when the scars that decorated his body began to twinge, a permanent reminder that the water was not always kind. Second years through to seventh years would be brought along by the Thestral-drawn carriages—and hadn’t that been an unexpected surprise when he himself had begun his seventh year, the stench of death burned into his mind.

Almost three years had passed since the Dark Lord was vanquished, but the war was still fresh in the minds of those who had lived and breathed its tragedy. Children who had lost their families, relatives of Death Eaters, blameless muggleborns who would be scorned for something as small as blood. Too many of them would gasp and reach out to touch the newly visible creatures. They may not even know what it meant, that reminder of the past. They wouldn’t understand that this was not how it was supposed to be.

But that was the aim, wasn’t it? That the kids those dark, skeletal horses transported to Hogwarts wouldn’t see them They’d see nothing but thin air and think it was another magical trick, another clever secret Hogwarts hid within its boundaries. They wouldn’t have their dead mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers hovering in their psyches.

The first trickle of teenagers began thundering through the double doors of the Great Hall, hurrying to their respective long wooden table placed under the banner and crest of their house.

He noticed immediately that the Slytherin table kept sneaking glances at him. Most, if not all of them, would’ve known his appointment in advance—he’d told Narcissa, who would have gone on to tell the rest of her social circle—but there were still hints of surprise, anger, and confusion on their faces.

His left arm was concealed by layers of black fabric, but the branded skin still burned with the heat of their gazes. Regulus met their eyes head-on, eyes sweeping along the length of the Slytherin table, letting nothing escape from the shutters of his cool, untarnished mask.

When the tables were almost full and the chatter dimmed with a sharp noise emitted by Dumbledore’s wand, McGonagall brought out this year’s group of first years.

There were around 50 of them, all glancing around in terrified awe. Regulus’s eyes were instantly drawn to the head of bright pink hair, sticking out like a sore thumb amidst the brown, blonde, and ginger. Adora gave him a beaming grin and thumbs-up, which he returned with his own slight smile. There was a Weasley there as well, the aforementioned ginger, off to join another distinctively Weasley boy sitting at the Gryffindor table, no doubt.

Regulus made an effort to learn all the names and faces as they sat down on the stool and had the Hat placed on their small heads, especially the Slytherins whom he would look after for the next seven years.

“TONKS, NYMPHADORA!”

Nose wrinkling at the utterance of her given name, she snapped out an indignant, “It’s Tonks!” before plopping herself down on the stool, wide, excited eyes concealed by the brim of the Sorting Hat as it descended.

There was a long, drawn-out pause. Regulus could feel himself holding a breath of anticipation.

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

Her hair flashed yellow and black, drawing gasps from the students, as she leapt from the stool and sprinted for the Hufflepuff table. His face split into a wide smile as he joined the raucous applause. Her eyes sought out his at the High Table and gave him a cheeky wink and toothy smile.

Adora had never been destined for Ravenclaw or Slytherin, despite her considerable intelligence. It had always been the house of the brave and chivalrous or loyal and hard-working for her. Regulus had always held a quiet hope that she would go to Hufflepuff, just like her father, and he was pleased she had.

The Weasley—Charles—went to Gryffindor, as expected. He thought distantly of Molly and Arthur Weasley, and then of Molly’s brothers, Gideon and Fabian, lost to a Death Eater attack. A grimace threatened his face, but he fought it down, determined not to think too many despondent thoughts on what was meant to be a lovely evening.

There were around eleven new Slytherins, he noted to himself as the Sorting drew to a close and McGonagall rolled back up the list of names and took the Hat away. Dumbledore stood up, drawing all eyes and ears in the room, and gave his customary speech, calling for peace and unity, etc, etc.

“And I have another announcement!” Dumbledore declared after introducing Defence Professor Emerson, waving a hand in his direction. “Professor Slughorn has decided to retire, so I would like to introduce another new addition to the staff, our new Potions Master. Please join me in welcoming Professor Black!”

Regulus got up and nodded to the student populace. There was a round of hesitantly cordial applause, which he couldn’t bring himself to begrudge them for; his surname was infamous in the wizarding world, and like he’d thought before, the war was fresh, and the scars still bled.

Food appeared in the gold and silver platters before them after he sat back down, brought to them by the house elves toiling away in the kitchen. He dug in, relishing in the taste of tender meat and gravy melting on his tongue, the gentle reminders of childhood, each pang of remembrance echoing through his body as he ate the Hogwarts food and watched the children eat and chat to each other.

His soul yearned for that cheerful ease, that relaxed comfort. He felt like an intruder, sweating slightly in his buttoned-up shirt and black robes amidst the September heat and glow of the floating candles, surrounded by adults far older and wiser than he could ever hope to be.

 _This was such a mistake_ , he thought as he spooned potatoes into his mouth. How did he ever think he could do this? The children would laugh at him, the teachers would shun him, and he would be nothing more than Hogwarts’s resident Death Eater, another pathetic, failure of a Black.

Elodie’s face flashed before his eyes; a light splatter of freckles on her pale upturned nose, soft light brown hair falling around her oval face, long, dark lashes framing her wide blue eyes. Willing her brand of quiet confidence to still the pool of unease in his stomach, he let out a long, measured breath and reached for more mashed potatoes.

After the Welcoming Feast ended, he waited for a little while before following the path to the Slytherin common room. Being the Head of House, he knew the password, and a single low utterance of “Salazar” lead to the section of normal-looking grey wall fade into a hidden passageway.

Nothing had changed since he had dwelled here as a teenager. Fire still flickered in the torches on the walls, and the lake was still visible when one peered out the window, watching fish idly swim by and water lap against the glass. Even looking at it made his scars tingle and something tight choke his throat, so he busied himself with watching the students he was determined to save.

The entire common room fell silent when he walked in. No one had headed off to their dormitories yet. The prefects seemed to have just finished their speech to the first years. All eyes were drawn to him, standing at the entrance of the room with Dumbledore’s trust worn like armour and the Dark Mark hidden beneath layers of fabric, shame, and time.

“Professor Black,” Bryony Parkinson, a seventh-year prefect, said, standing up from her seat by the fireplace. “Do you…require anything?”

“I thought it prudent to allow you to further familiarise yourself with your new Head of House,” he explained, moving to sit down in what he knew from experience to be the most comfortable and elegant armchair. His grey eyes swept over the gaggle of first years, who had moved closer to him and stared with large eyes.

“Yes, we were told of your appointment,” the other seventh-year prefect, Julian Selwyn said, an air of confused scepticism still hovering on his face.

Regulus threaded his fingers together and rested them in his lap. “I will be frank,” he began, quite proud of how quickly he commanded their attention. “My history, and my family’s history, has been an infamous topic of discussion, especially in the recent years, where the course of my life has changed quite significantly.” His Dark Mark itched at the hinted mention; he ignored it. “I wanted to come here tonight, the first night of the school year, to…clear things up.”

He turned his gaze more firmly on the first years. “Are any of you muggleborn?”

In his head, he prayed to anyone listening that there was none.

His prayers weren’t answered, because a tiny slip of a girl with short, springy black curls surrounding her head glanced around her, drinking in the subtle distaste that permeated from many of her fellows, and raised her dark hand, looking fierce and defiant. “Felicity Harris,” she said as an introduction, expression morphing into one edging on a snarling glare.

He swallowed a sigh and instead nodded. “Are any of you half-blood?”

Of the ten remaining kids, three nodded. He didn’t bother to ask for their names this time; half-blood discrimination was still present, or at least it had been in his time and he doubted it had changed much since then, but the more pressing problem was Felicity Harris.

“I want to make this incredibly clear,” he said, keeping his tone level and mild. “If I am made aware of Miss Harris being the target of any scorn or slurs for her blood status, you will be punished to the best of the school’s ability. I will not tolerate that kind of behaviour. The same goes for attacking half-bloods.”

He could see the discontent on many faces, though it was quickly pushed down and hidden. But he could also see the faint relief on Felicity Harris’s face, and that made it worth it.

His Slytherins would not understand immediately. They had been fed lies by their families, and they were young. They hadn’t been forced to watch as a muggleborn was tortured. They hadn’t watched Lily Evans sweep through the school like a force of nature. They hadn’t ventured out into Muggle London and seen with their own eyes the worthiness of that world, those people.

But that was fine. He hadn’t expected them to understand him straight away. He only hoped that they would, eventually.

“You’ll find that I intend to take a much more active role as Head of Slytherin House,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Things which may have been acceptable or ignored before will no longer experience the same treatment.”

Slughorn hadn’t been a bad Head of House, but it was undeniable that he’d let many of his charges fall for the Dark Lord’s web of charming falsities, too focused on cultivating favours and loyalties on both sides to catch and excise the festering darkness in the dungeons. Regulus had been a victim; he was determined to make sure no one else was.

“Yes, Professor,” Bryony Parkinson said, though her jaw was clenched.

He let a smile flit across his face. “Welcome to Slytherin,” he said, projecting his voice. “My office door is open if you ever need it. I expect great things from _all_ of you.” And with that, he rose from the chair and swept out of the room, dark robes flaring behind him.

Regulus was sitting on his bed when he saw the fire in the main room of his quarters flare green and a figure step out. Elodie was still in her Healer’s uniform, lime green robes crumpled and wrinkled, looking faintly harried. She immediately opened his bedroom door and sat down next to him.

“Thank you,” he said, snaking an arm around her shoulders.

“What for?” she asked, shifting her body so she lay curled into his side, their backs leaning against the dark wooden headboard of his bed, legs atop deep green sheets. Her head was resting against his shoulder, hair tickling the sensitive curve of his neck.

Regulus breathed in the familiar scent of her rose shampoo and turned his head slightly to press his lips to the top of her forehead. “For being here with me. For believing in me.”

Elodie’s wandering hand sought out his, delicate fingers curling around his wrist, thumb brushing against his pulse.

“Regulus,” she said, “I’ll always believe in you.”

The words were there again, choking his throat, but it wasn’t the right time, so he swallowed them back down and contented himself with the weight of her against him, a grounding, steadying force.

She had to leave eventually, but Regulus found that after nearly a year, watching Elodie Lewis leave had gotten easier and easier, because he knew she would always come back.

He fell asleep dreaming of bubbling, steaming cauldrons and a sea of faceless children, begging to be shaped into the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy hell y'all don't know how freaking frustrating and stressful it was trying to figure out how many new first years there should be. like, j*r said there were like 1000 kids at hogwarts but that makes NO sense bc there's so few professors, so i scaled that down, and yeah...please just go with me and ignore any glaring logistical holes. blame j*r for the messy worldbuilding.
> 
> happy new years eve everybody! can't wait to finally get to 2021 and leave this hell year behind, but also, holy shit is this terrifying. i'm turning 17 this year o.O scary


	6. the potions master

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regulus teaches his first class and speaks to Slytherin house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the longgg delay (compared to previous updates haha) i went into a mild depressive episode and didn't have a lot of motivation to write. but now i'm like 1k words into chapter 9 and figured it had been a while since my last update so why not post early? :)

His first ever class as a professor was made up of third years; Gryffindor and Slytherin, because his luck was just like that.

Both house members had been glaring each other down and exchanging sniping insults, but as he flung the door open and strode inside, their enmity faded, replaced with disdain and suspicion directed towards him. If he wasn’t so high-strung, he would’ve found it funny, how the lions and snakes had united in their feelings towards their teacher.

“Hello,” he said, stopping to stand behind his desk and survey the class. There were around 30 of them, tiny thirteen-year-olds sitting in pairs at their tables. “As you would’ve heard yesterday, I’m Professor Black, and I will be your Potions Master until the end of your Potions career at Hogwarts.”

He flicked his wand and sent the piece of white chalk soaring into the air, pausing to hover by the blackboard. “Potions, like all magic, has an inherent element of potential danger. Thus, I expect that while you are in this classroom, you follow all instructions given and do not try to muck around or misbehave. Your safety is my highest priority; do not do anything to jeopardise it. I know you are third years and shouldn’t have to be reminded of this, but please be sensible and careful. No wands out unless it is _absolutely necessary_ ; potions in their brewing stages are highly sensitive to magic and might absorb some of the spell, undoing the intended effects.” Behind him, the faint scratching of chalk was the only other sound in the room other than his voice.

Regulus paused for a deep breath. “Today, we will be reviewing some of what you learned last year about the Swelling Solution. The instructions are in your books but will also be on the board if you wish to refer to that instead. The ingredients are in the cupboard and in your kits.”

There was a long pause after hie finished speaking when no one moved. The Slytherins continued to eye him with expressions ranging from interest to confusion to dislike, while the Gryffindors shot him narrow-eyed glares.

“I thought the ‘start brewing’ was able to be inferred,” he deadpanned, “but since it was apparently too subtle, I would like you to start. Now.”

Finally, the students moved to flip through their books and collect the ingredients from the cupboard. He watched with sharp eyes as they set their cauldrons up, eventually deciding to stand up and begin moving through the rows, peering at their mortars and cauldrons. The Gryffindors stiffened when he passed them, no doubt knowing his long family history and questionable past, but he simply commented, “I would crush that a bit more, there’s still a few lumps of eye that would react badly with the bad spleen you add later,” or “That’s ready, Brown, you don’t need to crush it further, I know it’s very therapeutic but the poor ingredients don’t deserve this,” before moving on.

The Slytherins weren’t scared of him or hateful of his past allegiances, but their looks were no less questioning and frowning. He made sure to treat both houses the same as he moved around the room, lest he be accused of favouritism. There was no surer way to alienate a school or a particular house.

He noticed that when he passed a particular Gryffindor student, Amelia Jones (he’d woken up early and frantically tried to memorise everyone’s names), her shoulders stiffened, and she angled herself away from him. Her hands, too, grew unsteady, until she smacked her pestle against the side of the ceramic bowl and almost tipped the mortar over.

Muggleborn. The Gryffindors had probably regaled her with the tales of his former status as a Death Eater and his family’s notorious legacy. That would be problematic.

Despite this, the lesson progressed without incident. When they had all added water and stirred, leaving the cauldron alone to set, Regulus let himself relax slightly. He’d expected furious clashes and animosity from the two rival houses being put together and being taught by a known ex-Death Eater, but apparently, he’d thought too soon.

One of his Slytherins, dark-haired and dark-eyed Milana Snyde, aimed her wand at Amelia Jones’s cauldron and opened her mouth.

“Miss Snyde,” he said, walking over to stand by her, wand secure in the holster on his arm and ready to be slid out and cast a Shield Charm. “Would you like to explain why you have your wand out, when I explicitly said at the beginning of the class not to?”

Milana gaped at him, jaw unhinged.

“Would you like to explain why you have your wand aimed at Miss Jones’s cauldron?” He could see the Gryffindor girl jolt at the mention of her name. All eyes in the room were on them now, potions left to simmer.

“I—Professor Black—she’s a _mudblood_ —” Milana stammered, mouth opening and closing.

His lips thinned, and he exhaled a sighing breath. “Five points from Slytherin,” he said, “for disobeying my rules and intending to sabotage a classmate. Another five points from Slytherin for derogatory language.”

He strode back to his desk and cleared his throat, ignoring the indignance radiating off the Slytherins. “It seems there are still misconceptions running wild,” he said. “I am not my family. I am no longer a Death Eater.” There were audible gasps and sharp intakes of breath. “I may be the Head of Slytherin, but I will not favour my house’s students over others, especially when they are in the wrong. Slurs and derogatory language have no place in my classroom, or in this castle.” At that, his stare lingered on the Slytherins.

Really, he should’ve started with this, instead of pretending the lesson could pass without _something_ happening.

“Carry on with your potions,” he said. The Slytherins looked almost betrayed—his talk last night really had gone over their heads—while the Gryffindors had expressions of grudging respect on their faces. When he glanced at Amelia Jones, she still didn’t look at ease, but surprise and thankful relief flickered over her face in quick succession before she bent her head back down.

When the bat spleens were added, the liquids stirred, and the cauldrons headed, the students poured some of their Swelling Solutions into stoppered, labelled flasks and left them at his desk to grade later before filing out of the classroom. The Gryffindors seemed much less antagonistic towards him, some even thanking him for the lesson and saying farewell. None of the Slytherins spoke to him before departing; Milana Snyde shot him a nasty glare, but the others seemed torn.

Regulus had just picked up one of the bottles, ready to inspect the potency of their potions and then grade them based on it, when there was a quiet, hesitant knock.

“Come in!” he called, fighting a frown. He hadn’t been expecting any visitors.

The door swung open and in walked one of the Slytherin third years he had just taught. He’d shifted out of his professor mode, so it took a few seconds to place his face: Alexander Fawley, from one of the rare neutral pureblood families, who was twisting a lock of feathery brown hair around his finger as he walked in, shoulders hunched.

“Mister Fawley,” he said, eyebrow raised. “Did you need anything? Leave anything behind?”

He took a deep breath, steeling himself. “No, sir,” he said. “I just wanted to, um, say something.”

Regulus nodded and leaned back, waiting. A few moments passed; his eyes darted around, looking at the tables, the potions, the cupboards, anywhere but him.

“My family told me a lot about yours,” he finally began. “The Blacks, the old, rich, blood purist family. We knew you had defected, but we didn’t know why, or what happened, or anything. I thought you were going to be just the same. And then you gave us that talk last night, and you told off Snyde just before, and I thought—I thought that was really good of you. To do that. Even though it would be a lot easier to ignore it or keep being bad.”

Everything came rushing out of his mouth in one fell swoop, with scarcely a breath in between words. When he finished, there was a tiny glint of hope in his brown eyes as he stared at him, fingers twisting together.

Regulus was struck by both gratitude and sadness all at once. Gratitude, because this was tangible proof that Slytherin could be saved, that there were people in his house who already knew better, that one day people would think of the green-and-silver house and think of its traits, of slyness and cunning and ambition, rather than prejudice and evil. But there was also immense sadness mingling with that relief because this scared thirteen-year-old boy was thanking him for the bare minimum; telling someone off for saying a slur and misbehaving, laying out the ground rules, showing that he accepted people. The bar was so low.

“Thank you,” he said. It wasn’t an adequate expression of everything he wanted to say, but it would have to do. “Thank you very much, Mister Fawley. It means a great deal to me that my efforts and intentions have been noticed.”

His shoulders slumped, and he smiled, wide and beaming. “You’re welcome, Professor Black. I really hope you keep doing what you’re doing. Slytherin is where I belong, but I don’t like what it’s come to stand for. I hope you succeed in trying to change that.”

“I hope so too,” he whispered as he walked out of his classroom.

His first week as a professor passed in a flash. No one blew up their cauldron, he was able to step in whenever he noticed acts of bullying or degradation, and Adora only called him ‘Uncle Reg’ instead of ‘Professor Black’ seven times, which was less than he’d expected. Regulus had been dreading the intersection of his classroom with her inherent clumsiness, but her embattled Potions partner managed to consistently save the cauldron and its contents from toppling to the floor whenever she knocked into it. He also took to hovering around the girl whenever he had the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff first years, in case her antics weren’t prevented one day.

He’d learned after his first class to open each lesson with a talk and reminder to the Slytherins that he wouldn’t tolerate bullying and discrimination in his room. The Gryffindors managed to relax around him in all his ex-Death Eater, Lord Black glory; he suspected his intervention and scolding of Milana Snyde had made the rounds in the lions’ common room, for they had much more respect towards him after that. The Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws were the same, when he put his stance into practice, taking points and issuing detentions to even his own house members for their misdeeds.

On the evening of the Friday, the last day of the first week, Regulus called a Slytherin house meeting. He sat in the same chair he did before, his snakes crammed into the common room and gathered around with an air of inquisitive reluctance.

“I have decided,” he intoned, gaze sweeping around the dimly lit room, across the faces peering at him, “that a more direct approach should be utilised, both in terms of my history and Slytherin house as a whole. Every Friday night, after dinner, I wish for you to gather in the common room with me. I should make this clear: for now, this is not a request,” he added when he saw a few mouths open.

“I know that Slytherin faces many difficulties from the rest of the school. This will allow you to have easier access to file complaints and raise your concerns with me, which I can then pass onto the appropriate people or deal with them individually.”

Bryony Parkinson had a pinched look on her face, but she couldn’t exactly argue, so she simply nodded. The rest of the house followed her lead.

“What did you want to discuss with us then, Professor?” she asked, arms crossed.

Regulus sat back. “I know many of you are at least vaguely aware of the story of my participation in the war and subsequent defection,” he said. “I imagine you may have questions. This is my promise to you: nothing you say will be held against you tonight. You have the liberty of asking me anything you want to know.” He spread his arms out wide and gave a tight, toothless smile. “You want to know about the war? You want to know about the Dark Lord? Here’s your chance. I can’t guarantee you’ll like what you hear.”

For a few long moments, there was nothing but silence. Several students shifted their feet, some opening their mouths and then closing them, glancing around in tense apprehension.

He raised his eyebrows. “I’ll just talk, then, shall I? Feel free to interrupt when you wish.”

A silent hush fell around them as he began. “As you know, I was born into the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. We had a long family history and legacy, which included an aversion to muggleborns and muggles. My brother, Sirius,” he paused, chest tightening at the mention of his name, “was sorted into Gryffindor, bucking the tradition of Blacks going to Slytherin. When I came along a year later, unlike him, I went to Slytherin.

“My first years at Hogwarts were extremely normal. I made friends with other pureblooded children around my age and excelled in my studies. In fact, while there was plenty of blood-based enmity in the castle, the Blood War didn’t truly begin until my third year, when the Dark Lord and his Death Eater followers made their presence known, attacking muggles and prominent wizarding areas to provoke fear. Their agenda was based on eliminating muggleborns—mudbloods, they called them,” he said, grimacing at the word. He saw tiny Felicity Harris flinch. “Muggleborns, to them, were dirty, filthy, unworthy of magic, tainting the great wizarding world and its traditions. Muggles, too, were unworthy of life and should be eliminated or enslaved. They wanted total wizarding dominance, to assert their superiority.

“So, I want you to answer this question, because I know many here share this belief. What makes muggles so low, so unworthy? What makes muggleborns deserving of the label ‘filth’?”

The common room was dead silent. He steepled his fingers and waited for an answer.

“Because they can’t do magic,” a sixth-year girl with the pale, delicate Rosier features said. “Muggles can’t do magic, so they are inferior.”

“They can’t do magic,” he agreed. “That is a fact. But do you know what they can do? What they have managed to do without it?”

Julian Selwyn scoffed. “Roll around in the mud?” he offered with a sneer. “Murder each other in useless wars? Abhor what they cannot understand?”

Regulus laughed. There was little humour in the sound, which carried a mocking chill that echoed in the room.

“And wizards are better than that?” he drawled. “Us magical folk are above murdering each other in useless wars? I assume I don’t have to remind you that we are fresh out of one such useless war, where we too abhorred what we couldn’t understand.”

Selwyn’s face screwed up into something irritated and wholly undignified, but he kept his mouth shut, unable to think of a counterargument.

“What you are forgetting,” Regulus went on, “is that muggles are just like us, only with their technology and science rather than our magic. They contain the same spectrum of good and bad as us. They laugh the same, smile the same, cry the same.” He paused, thinking of red splattered against cracked tiles, laughter ringing in his ears along with the screams. “They bleed the same.”

“Their blood is filth.” Bryony Parkinson’s words were less charged with rage as her prefect counterpart’s had been, but they were no less biting.

He ignored her. “Muggles have been to the moon. Did you know that?”

Judging by the collective intake of air in the room, they did not.

“With no magic, none at all, only their intellect and technology, they propelled themselves into space and to the moon. Muggles have set foot on the moon. Can we say the same?”

No wizard had ever been to the moon.

“In their World War Two, American muggles created a remarkable piece of technology called the atomic bomb. They dropped it on two Japanese cities. Both were destroyed. Hundreds of thousands of people were killed in just one of the blasts. The American non-magical government, as well as many others such as our very own United Kingdom, still possesses these atomic bombs—nuclear weapons. If they wanted to, they could drop it on Magical Britain and wipe us out.”

“I’m not lying,” he added, noticing the horrified scepticism on some of their faces. “You can ask Professor Quirrell in Muggle Studies about it or go into Muggle London and read it all for yourself.”

“Muggles vastly outnumber wizards and witches in Britain, as well as in the whole world. They have their own weapons and ways of combat. Even with magic, we would not be able to overcome them, and wiping them out is foolish, because our population numbers are dwindling as it is.”

He thought of Adora, her pureblood mother and muggleborn father, her hair flashing all the colours of the rainbow in swift succession. “My cousin Andromeda, born to the pureblood House of Black, married a muggleborn. Her daughter is now a metamorphmagus, a highly desirable and valued trait, which used to be more prominent in my family before our inbreeding and refusal to marry those of supposedly impure blood led to those rare traits being bred out. It took the inclusion of new blood to have it resurface.”

“Mudbloods are filth,” Bryony Parkinson said, only she sounded much more hesitant now, like she was parroting the words of her elders. “They dirty our traditions and society. They have no place in our world.”

“Why’s that?” Felicity Harris snapped, speaking up with her eyes flashing. “I can do magic, same as you. Just because I wasn’t born here doesn’t mean I don’t belong here.”

“You’ve all heard of Lily Evans,” he said. “Harry Potter’s mother. She was a muggleborn, and she was the best witch in her year, able to wipe the floor with many a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. None of the purebloods in her year could surpass her in terms of intelligence, and few could in magical skill. In contrast, I know purebloods with only middling intellect and power.”

“Blood doesn’t matter,” he said, willing his words to sink into their minds. “There are smart, powerful muggleborns, and there are stupid, weak purebloods. Blood is no guarantee of worth.”

Regulus left it there for now. It was enough for one night; he didn’t want to overload and overwhelm them with information. “I’ll see you all here next Friday night,” he said, getting up from his chair. “Please think about what I’ve said. Misconceptions about blood purity and muggles led to a war that spilled plenty of magical blood. It’s unlike our Slytherin natures to jump into action without thinking about the context, unless you wish to be resorted into Gryffindor.”

There were a few weak chuckles at that, and he smiled, letting a hint of warmth slip in. “Goodnight,” he said.

“Goodnight, Professor Black,” they chorused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like this isn't very good :/ sorry y'all
> 
> anyway happy new year guys! i hope your 2021 has been good so far and will continue to be good.
> 
> EDIT! hello it's me i thought i would just pop in and say that the hogwarts mytery games and their plots n stuff will not be taking place in this story! i might mention some of the HM cahracters in passing but the contents of the game won't be occurring in this fic. :)


	7. riddle me this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regulus has more less-than-fun talks with Slytherin and makes a big discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for disappearing for so long y'all! i went to a life-changing science forum aka nerd camp and then came back sick and sad so yay. might take a while to get back into writing but i had a few chapters shored up before leaving so i figured i'd post one :)

“Any questions?”

It was Friday evening again. The second week of his nascent teaching career was just as tensely uneventful as his first, though he recognised that the other houses were slowly beginning to warm up to him. McGonagall had even stopped staring holes into the back of his head during mealtimes, settling for the occasional side-eye.

The Slytherins, who were seated before him in the dimly lit common room, were still mostly distant, either making up their minds or waiting to try gauge the temperament of the overall house.

Unlike the first house meeting, this time, a dark hand rose into the air.

“Miss Thornton,” he said, nodding in her direction.

“You said last week,” she began, “that…that we wouldn’t be able to overcome the muggles, even with magic.” She was only a second year; it grated on him that he was having to expose children like her to the horrific nature of things, but it was that or letting them be hoodwinked by one of the faithless sides of the war.

The physical war may have ended, the exchange of spellfire halted, but the real war was still ongoing. Things had not been neatly resolved by the Dark Lord’s defeat, no matter how many people liked to pretend that was the case.

“I did.”

She glanced around at the stony faces surrounding her. “I was just wondering,” she said, twisting a glossy curl around her finger. “If we had a war with the muggles, would we win?”

“No.”

The answer was easy, simple. The indignance that flashed across many faces told him they didn’t believe it.

“Remember the bombs I mentioned last week? The atomic ones? They have others as well, on a smaller scale but no less explosive and no less deadly. Not unlike our Blasting Curses. Muggles also have guns, which I suppose you would describe as their technological version of the Killing Curse. One press of a button, and a loaded gun will release a small projectile called a bullet, which, if it hits you in a vital area, will certainly kill you, and will either way do plenty of damage.”

“Yes, we have magic,” he said patiently. “Yes, we have our own Killing Curses, our own Blasting Curses. But they have those things in different forms, and they have the advantage of numbers. There are billions of muggles in the world. There are not billions of wizards and witches.”

“Not to mention,” Regulus added, “a brutal war against the muggles, even if we won, even if we managed to wipe them off the face of the planet, would have dire consequences for the wizarding population as well. The breeding pool, so to speak, is already so limited. Without muggles to marry and muggleborns to enter the world and provide fresh blood, the wizarding world would dwindle down to a few grossly inbred individuals, vulnerable to plagues and external factors due to their lack of genetic diversity.”

Even when the blood purists’ faces scrunched up at the mention of having children with muggles, they could not deny what he was saying; Magical Britain had been decimated by the war, losing many family lines on both sides of the conflict. Simply marrying each other would lead to prized traits dying off, like in his own family with the metamorphmagus gene.

“We need muggles,” he said. “I hope you can see that now, and you can see how foolish the Dark Lord’s plan was.”

His fingers dug into the fabric of the armrests. “Speaking of the Dark Lord,” he said, trying to sound far more casual and relaxed than he really was, “The topic of tonight’s discussion will be my time with the Death Eaters, short-lived as it was.”

Many faces perked up. He looked forward to crushing whatever misconceptions they had.

“I joined when I was sixteen,” he said, chest tightening at the memories. “I was Marked the summer before my sixth year. During your initiation, it’s expected that you kill someone.”

People flinched. He wanted to shake their shoulders and stare into their eyes and demand to know what they’d thought Death Eating was all about other than killing and torture and death. He wanted to scream at Dumbledore that he quit and storm out of Hogwarts and live out the rest of his life a solemn recluse haunting the halls of 12 Grimmauld Place, never having to think or speak about the Dark Lord again.

He looked at the teenagers standing before him, sitting cross-legged with round faces or standing with their arms crossed and small scowls on their faces, and saw himself reflected in each and every one of them.

And that was why he couldn’t leave; because he had been there one, Slytherin tie knotted around his neck and housemates gathered around him. No one had been there to stop him.

Regulus tugged up his sleeve, baring the Dark Mark that was permanently emblazoned on his forearm, though the stark black ink was faded.

“My cousin Bellatrix acquired a muggle for me,” he said, when the muted gasps subsided. “She subjected him to several rounds of the Cruciatus before demanding that I kill him using the Killing Curse. Avada Kedavra.” Green light flashed before his eyes. “I did what she asked, because the alternative was death.”

“It wasn’t until I was seventeen and free of the trace that I was made to begin to partake in the raids and attacks.” Fire, roaring towards the sky. Streaks of green and red just barely missing his face. The sickening thump of a body hitting the ground. “If he was displeased with our performance, the Dark Lord would torture us.”

His body twitched, as if it remembered the rounds of Cruciatus, the screams that bubbled up his throat and poured out of his mouth, the cold press of marble floor against his too-hot skin.

“He tortured you?” Julian Selwyn asked, a quizzical frown on his porcelain face.

“Yes.”

“But you’re a pureblood?”

Regulus gave him a smile that drooped in the corners. “You think that stopped him?” he asked. “The Dark Lord _marked_ us. He believed himself superior to everyone, even the purest of purebloods. I was Heir Black, as pure and noble as they come, and still I was expected to kneel at his feet and accept the Cruciatus.”

His eyes swept around the room. “What did you think being in the service of the Dark Lord would entail?” he asked. He knew the answer, of course: muggles suffering, muggleborns expelled, purebloods lording over the rest of magical society. It apparently hadn’t occurred to them that they would be hurt along the way.

“The Dark Lord wasn’t afraid to treat faithful pureblood lives as expendable,” he said. “He didn’t hesitate to torch and destroy the homes of purebloods on the other side, treating them the same as muggleborns and muggles. He preached blood purity only when it benefited him. He—”

The thought crashed into him all at once, the pieces assembling themselves in his mind’s eye. Slytherin’s locket, distinctive emerald S twinkling in the light. The lengths the Dark Lord went to for its protection, his making such a priceless, historic item his horcrux, suggested a great deal of personal attachment, especially considering the man’s arrogant and absorbed nature.

More than that, he had never heard of the Dark Lord discussing his own blood status, only capitalising on his followers’ beliefs of pureblood superiority. But if he was truly descended from Slytherin, as the evidence suggested, then why would he not flaunt this? Being Salazar Slytherin’s heir would convince many more to follow and join his cause. So, why hadn’t he used his ancient ancestry to his advantage?

 _He preached blood purity,_ he thought, _but what if he wasn’t pureblood?_

Regulus gave a tiny shake of his head, filing away this lead for another day. He had Slytherins to sway; it would not do to be distracted, and he wanted to pay that thread of interest his full attention.

“Did it hurt?” one of the first years asked.

“Yes,” he answered, speaking over the scoffs. “It hurt a lot. The Cruciatus Curse takes you to a whole new level of pain, far beyond what you think is the limit. And the Dark Lord would frequently remind you of this when he was displeased.”

“Did you think being a Death Eater was fun?” His voice was soft. “An enjoyable pastime? A worthwhile cause? It was none of those. It was writhing on the ground and screaming, your dignity forgotten. It was watching your fellows laugh as they tortured innocents; not even active combatants or criminals, just random people who didn’t deserve to die. It was following the orders of a madman because you were too afraid to say no.”

To his surprise, there were no cries of treason, no one speaking up to defend the Dark Lord. Though it was difficult to argue against someone who had lived it. His Dark Mark was still visible, and he could feel many eyes staring at it, while he tried his hardest to look away.

“Why did you join?” Felicity Harris asked, breaking the heavy silence. “If you didn’t agree with them, if you hated what they did, why did you join?”

“Because I had to,” he replied, reminded of a similar talk he’d had with Dumbledore. “My family expected me to. Sirius had run away; our reputation was disgraced and in tatters. My parents thought me joining the Dark Lord would fix everything, so that was what I had to do.”

‘You could’ve said no,” she said, hunched in on herself.

“I could’ve,” he nodded. “But I was scared. They were my parents, and I loved them despite everything. I was not brave enough to run away.”

The admittance was raw in his throat. Sirius had berated him upon discovering his mark, calling him foolish and cowardly. But his brother had never understood how _hard_ it was to go against their parents, against the expectations of his family and his world, against his fear.

One thing the Gryffindors had never understood was that not everyone was brave. Blind, bold courage didn’t come easily to others as it did to them. Some people were just cowards. That didn’t mean they liked what they had to do.

Regulus would never forget the sight of Sirius’s back, storming out the front door with his wand in hand and trunk in the other, leaving Grimmauld Place forever. Regulus would never stop regretting the fact that he hadn’t gone with him.

Maybe if he had, things would’ve turned out differently.

He imagined a pale, bare forearm, an arm around his shoulders, laughter ringing in his ears. A family who loved him for who he was, not who they could mould him into being, not who he pretended to be. James Potter’s smirk, friendly instead of taunting, Lily Evans’s blazing warmth, directed at him for once.

But that was not to be. Here, there was only eternally stained skin, the bare walls of Azkaban, and two bodies buried beneath the earth, their son hidden away from the world and devoid of parents.

Wait. _Shit_.

Why did he always forget about his Inferi scars whenever he dramatically displayed his Dark Mark?

“Those scars,” he said, because now that they were out in the open, he might as well use them to his advantage, “won’t ever fade. They’ll never heal properly.” A single shaking finger traced one of the worst ones, a thick, jagged, ropy line of dark pink that stretched diagonally across the top of his left arm. Eventually, it would turn into a thin dark line, but it would never disappear. A permanent reminder of the Dark Lord’s cruelty, and what lengths he needed to go to in his quest to vanquish him.

“Inferi,” he said, answering the unspoken question.

“How old are you, Professor Black?” someone asked. He didn’t turn to face them.

“Twenty-three,” he replied.

Hissing out a sharp breath, he pulled the fabric of the sleeve down to conceal the Mark and the abundance of scars. The common room beneath the lake had turned suffocating; he could feel the pressure building beneath his eyes, the tell-tale stinging of his forehead.

“I’ll see you next week,” he said abruptly, trying not to look too distressed as he stormed out.

Regulus was a private person by nature. He wouldn’t call himself brooding or mysterious, though he’d heard others assign him those labels on occasion. Orion and Walburga Black had raised him to think of showing emotions in public as a humiliating, detestable thing, and he was still trying to unlearn those old, unhealthy impulses. This was one that had stuck despite it all; he disliked socialising and was furiously introverted. He would spend the rest of his life sequestered away in some library if he could, only seeing a select few people and not having to interact with the rest of the world.

But the world wouldn’t bend to his wishes and whims. The Slytherins he was meant to look after, the children he wanted to dissuade from following in his treacherous footsteps, they wouldn’t listen to him unless he gave them a reason. Their parents had taught them things as well, impressed them into their minds and carved them into their bones. He had to tell them the real, full, unedited truth if he stood a chance at them believing him when he said that the life that would await them was not what they wanted.

He still had time to do this: he’d been thrown to the wolves in the middle of a raging war, while these children lived in fragile peacetime. Their families would not be shoving them into the Dark Lord’s arms and forcing a brand onto their arms, because they were not in a hurry to curry favour or ensure the cause’s success. Once they left Hogwarts, they still had a chance, still had a choice.

Regulus just hoped they made the right one. He just hoped he was making a difference.

He was too high-strung to sleep, so instead, he Flooed to Grimmauld Place to unravel the tiny thread his thoughts had spun during his lecture. It was dark and gloomy, though Kreacher’s attentions meant no layers of dust had gathered to settle on any surface. Taking care not to disturb the portraits that lined the walls, he hurried past the music room and to the library and grabbed a selection of extensive books on genealogy.

The Slytherin line, as it turned out, had died out with the Gaunts in Britain. They had been one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but a joke in the intimate pureblood circles, regarded as inbred louts even by the Blacks. Despite their impressive ancestry, their foolishness and overindulgence in material goods meant the gold they possessed had been lost to them generations before the last of the Gaunts—Morfin and Merope—had been born.

If the Dark Lord was truly descended from Slytherin, he was a Gaunt, likely a child of Morfin and Merope. But Morfin had never sired any children; made insane by the inbreeding and influence of his dysfunctional childhood, he’d been to Azkaban twice for messing with and murdering muggles, dying in the prison during his second sentence. As for Merope, she’d been disowned and disappeared from the magical world. Perhaps she’d had a secret child, one Marvolo Gaunt and pureblood society would never know about. That certainly supported his theory that the Dark Lord was not pureblood, since Marvolo may have disowned his daughter for loving one of ‘impure’ blood.

Eyelids drooping, he tucked a few of the books under his arm, returned to Hogwarts, and resolved to continue investigating the possible connection between the Dark Lord and Merope Gaunt in the coming days.

Meeting with Elodie on September 13th—their one-year anniversary, and wasn’t that a scary thought—was a lovely reprieve from the heavy thoughts. They went back to the café where they’d had their first date for lunch for sentimentality’s sake. Both of their respective careers made their lives quite hectic, but they tried to have some sort of meeting once a week; the high-pitched sound of her laugh never failed to ease his troubled musings, if only for a few hours.

After checking the Ministry records of Morfin’s arrests, he found that the last of the Gaunts had resided on the outskirts of a muggle village, Little Hangleton, in a dilapidated shack. When he checked the muggle newspapers of the 1920s in that area, he found several gossipy articles centred around Merope Gaunt and Tom Riddle, the son of a rich, infamously snobby non-magical family of landowners. The two of them had apparently gotten married and run away together.

A year after the scandal of his and Merope’s marriage rocked the village, Tom Riddle had returned, claiming that the Gaunt girl had tricked him, taken him in. Perhaps Merope’s magic wasn’t strong enough to maintain the Imperius, or she’d stopped slipping him potions, hoping he loved her enough to stay.

A year was enough time to fall pregnant.

His suspicions were confirmed when he consulted the archives of Hogwarts in the library, combing through the records of students attending around the 1930s, the decade in which Merope and Tom’s child would’ve started their magical education.

  1. _T. Riddle_ : _1938–1945._



“There you are,” he muttered. The T would stand for Tom, of course, a name shared by Merope’s lost lover.

When he looked into Tom Riddle, he found a well-liked, intelligent, talented boy. He had been sorted into Slytherin, risen to Prefect and then Head Boy, and achieved consistently outstanding grades. But when Regulus tried to follow the trail after Hogwarts, it went cold. There were reports of him working at Borgin and Burkes, but after that, nothing. It was as if he’d vanished into thin air…or taken up a new, more menacing title.

Tom Riddle had also received a Special Award for Services to the School in 1943, allegedly for finding the culprit behind the opening of the Chamber of Secrets; of course, Regulus was inclined to believe Riddle had been the one to open it, and had simply framed someone else.

_But why wouldn’t he just unleash Slytherin’s monster on everyone? Why would he bother to frame someone?_

The answer hit him soon after he asked the question: Merope Gaunt must’ve died after giving birth to her child, probably weakened by Tom Riddle Senior’s departure and childhood abuse at the hands of her notably abusive, violent family members, and Riddle’s father had fled and would not want to care for a child born of bewitchment. The Dark Lord had grown up in a muggle orphanage, and his hatred of muggles would mean he didn’t want to return.

Forcing himself back on course, Regulus hurried to the Trophy Room to investigate the award for himself, examining the flat, polished plane of silver.

“T. M. Riddle,” he muttered to himself. T for Tom, but what did the M stand for?

Marvolo, Morfin, or Merope. He discarded Merope almost immediately; he doubted the woman would’ve named her son after herself, and tradition said to give sons the names of other male family members as a middle name.

Marvolo or Morfin.

Marvolo…

His feet led him back to his office, where he immediately picked up a quill and started scratching out a name on a spare bit of parchment. _TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE,_ he wrote, smudging ink on his fingers in his haste to get it down.

Regulus’s eyes were drawn to the ‘Vol’ in the middle name.

 _VOLDEMORT_ , he wrote beneath it, hands shaking. That left the letters o, m, a, r, i, d, and l.

 _LORD,_ he added before the word. That left i, a, and m.

_I AM LORD VOLDEMORT._

He slumped back in his seat, staring at the blotted, crumpled parchment.

“I need a drink,” he muttered. With a flick of his wand, the Dark Lord’s true name burned into a clump of ash on his desk, which he vanished with another wordless spell.

He also needed to talk to Dumbledore.

Sending a quick note asking for a meeting, he set off as soon as he received the reply, brushing past the students that lingered in the hallways. Most were outside, enjoying their weekend, but he nodded hello in acknowledgement to those he encountered on the way up a few flights of moving stairs until he arrived at Dumbledore’s office on the third floor.

“Cockroach clusters,” he bit out to the gargoyle, which jumped aside and let him step onto the circular staircase, tapping his foot impatiently against the stone as he was transported up.

“Ah, Regulus, my boy,” Dumbledore said, looking up from his desk and peering at him through half-moon glasses. “What can I do for you?”

He sat down in the chair opposite the headmaster, trying to figure out a way to say it.

“So,” he began, staring intently at the wood, “Tom Riddle, huh?”

Dumbledore’s crooked nose twitched. He set his wand down and leaned his arms on his desk. “Tom Riddle,” he agreed. “I assume you’ve just discovered Voldemort’s true origins?”

Regulus nodded. “Half-blood,” he snorted. “Bellatrix would be horrified.” He narrowed his eyes at the other man. “Why haven’t you told anyone?”

His lips thinned. “I believed it would do more harm than good,” he explained. “Exposing his identity might’ve garnered him more sympathy, what with his many achievements and accolades. I may have not even been believed.”

Regulus’s grip on the sides of his chair tightened until his knuckles turned even whiter. “If you told the world he was a half-blood,” he said in a forcibly measured tone, “the pureblood supremacists he convinced to be his followers would never have willingly followed him, someone they deemed to be of inferior blood, the son of a muggle no less. Even if people tried to discredit you, doubt would’ve been sowed.” He paused, gritting his teeth. “He may not have reached the levels of power he did if you spoke sooner.”

Dumbledore’s eyes lost their persistent twinkle. “Perhaps,” he said, the airy warmth fading from his voice. “Alas, we are here now.”

 _If Walburga Black had known the Dark Lord was nothing but a half-blood hypocrite, she may have never forced me into his service,_ he thought. The words were too venomous for him to allow them to leave his lips, but they lingered in his mind. Dumbledore had good intentions, he didn’t doubt that, but he was not infallible. This was just more proof of that.

Regulus tried to strangle his growing fury, though of it may have bled into his glaring eyes.

“What do you plan to do with this information?” Dumbledore asked mildly.

His first instinct was to say, “Tell the world, of course,” because people deserved to know, and this was something he could use to persuade people. But despite what his name might suggest, he was no brash, reckless Gryffindor, and he tempered this impulse, forcing himself to think bigger, think further.

The Dark Lord was not permanently defeated. For one, the locket horcrux was still intact, under Dumbledore’s custody. There were also almost certainly more horcruxes to find and vanquish. No, his old master would not be gone forever, and it would be better to expose his origins when he returned, so that the revelation would be at the forefront of everyone’s minds rather than something buried in their memories. Hopefully, that would turn most of the hard-line pureblood families away from supporting him.

“I will wait,” he said, eyes sharp. “He is not gone for good; we both know that. And when he manages to obtain a new, corporeal form, I will tell the world.”

Dumbledore nodded. “I believe part of our agreement as to your teaching position here was to more closely collaborate on finding the horcruxes,” he said, twirling his wand in his fingers. “After this year, you will be settled into the school and adjusted into your new position. Then, we will begin our search for the remaining horcruxes.”

His skin itched with urgency. Regulus wanted to brandish his wand, hunt down every chunk of Tom Marvolo Riddle’s soul that was left on this planet, and banish it from existence. But he was non-corporeal for now, and there was no need to rush.

He’d almost died retrieving the locket. The memory of it—cold water, slimy fingers drawing blood, hallucinations of the people he hated to love and the people who loved to hate—still lingered in every scar on his body, every chord of fear that struck him when he passed the Black Lake or stepped into the Slytherin common room or even took a bath, every time he woke up gasping for breath after a string of horrific nightmares. If the other horcruxes even had nearly the same level of protection surrounding them, he could not afford to run in blind.

“Next year,” he agreed.


	8. festive season

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regulus has a bad Halloween and a much better Christmas.

Regulus settled into a routine in mid-October. He’d been teaching for quite a few weeks, and had gotten accustomed to walking into class, directing his students to the ingredients cupboard and writing the instructions on the blackboard with magic, and marking their work afterwards. The other houses had stopped giving him suspicious looks and flinching when he passed them or interacted with them casually; some had progressed to greeting him cheerfully in the corridors of the castle. Even McGonagall’s cold front had melted slightly, probably after that one incident in the staff room where he’d thrown an empty ink pot at the wall and ranted for a good half hour about grading his latest batch of quizzes.

He continued to speak to his house every Friday evening. It wasn’t always about the war, or blood purism, or his time as a Death Eater; sometimes he was coaxed into rambling about the effects of the moon phases on ingredient cultivation and collection, sometimes someone had questions about homework and the whole thing turned into a big Slytherin house tutoring session, and sometimes other things happened as well, lighter topics arising, happier times discussed.

“We should keep doing these next year,” he heard someone mutter to a friend, “and all the years after that. Even when Professor Black isn’t talking about the war, we’re learning something, or building inter-house unity, or whatever. It’s fun and useful.” This was during one of the tutoring sessions, and their whispered conversation was interrupted by a delighted cry from a first year as they levitated their feather to the ceiling; it only served to prove their point.

Slytherin faced opposition from all other sides of Hogwarts; fractures within the house would only serve to weaken them even further, and that simply wouldn’t do. He saw the pointed looks shared by the fifth and sixth-year prefects, the gears turning in their heads.

Even when he couldn’t make it, held up by marking or staff meetings or personal issues, he knew the Slytherins still met in the common room.

He also noticed that less and less people were hissing slurs at their resident muggleborn first year. When he asked Felicity about this directly, she told him that people had stopped doing it after the first few weeks, and those who still did were ‘being dealt with.’

“Just don’t retaliate where I or any of the other teachers can see it,” he said with a laugh.

The next day, he ran into her hexing a third year to the ground. Her single night of detention was spent showing her even more spells she could add to her already impressive repertoire. The Friday after that, he saw her showing others—not just first years, but second and third years as well who needed the lesson or refresher—the spells he’d taught her.

Unity within Slytherin house was the only way for them to move forward. He watched N.E.W.T. students help struggling O.W.L. kids with their theory assignments, he watched little muggleborn Felicity Harris demonstrate jinxes for purebloods, he watched Slytherin come together, and he smiled.

That smile quickly dropped when he spotted Adora, Felicity, and the Weasley boy in their year gallivanting around the Hogwarts grounds one afternoon. His niece gave him a cheerful wave, his traitorous first year flashed him a smile, and Charlie Weasley tripped over and mumbled a muffled greeting when he approached.

“You didn’t tell me you’d made a friend in my house, Miss Tonks,” he said, crossing his arms.

She shrugged. “Didn’t think I needed to,” she replied. “Anyway, uh, Liss, Uncle Reg, Uncle Reg, Liss—I mean, Felicity.”

“We’ve met,” Felicity deadpanned. “Hi, Professor Black. Fancy seeing you here.”

“I’m keeping my eye on you three,” he warned them.

“Whatever happened, we didn’t do it,” Charlie said with haste as he clambered to his feet.

“Forgive me if that doesn’t inspire great confidence,” he drawled as he walked away.

Samhain, or Halloween, arrived with quiet sobriety. It had only been three years since the end of the Blood War, three years since James and Lily Potter had died and Harry Potter had miraculously survived. An increased number of students glanced at his left arm, which he kept constantly hidden beneath long black sleeves, throughout the day’s lessons.

That night’s Halloween Feast was subdued. The food was as well-cooked and prepared as usual, but it tasted like ash in his mouth as he ate with stiff, mechanical motions, eyes not leaving his plate. His hands shook as he held the knife and fork, despite his best efforts. They always shook on the bad days, and the 31st of October promised to always be a bad day, a constant reminder of how close the Dark Lord had been to winning before a baby somehow took him out, and a constant reminder of Sirius’s final, terrible betrayal.

(Had he gone to the Dark Lord as soon as the Fidelius had been cast, and the man had waited for an auspicious day to slaughter the Potters? Or had cowardice and fear driven his brother to the feet of Tom Riddle, speaking the Secret as easily as he had spoken to James and Lily Potter only moments before, a friend, a brother in all but blood?)

(Sirius had never been a coward; he’d never let fear control him. The Secret couldn’t be tortured out of the Secret Keeper either. What had really happened? What had changed?)

His brother probably wasn’t even aware of the date, locked up in Azkaban as he was. If he knew, would he be mourning? Regretting his decisions? Or cackling as madly as he had the day he’d been captured?

Phantom laughter ringing in his ears, Regulus closed his eyes when Dumbledore initiated the minutes of silence in remembrance for the fallen of the war and thought of Sirius and Barty; not the men they’d become, a convicted traitor and a convicted torturer, but the boys he had loved. The wild-haired kid who’d stepped in front of Mother’s anger to protect him, who whispered stories in the dead of night about two brothers who changed the world. The bright-eyed teenager who dragged him into his favourite nooks and crannies of the castle and whispered about a future that was theirs for the taking.

He thought of his other friends too, who had either died in the war or its aftermath (Evan Rosier, who’d been killed by the Auror Moody after the Dark Lord’s downfall), been imprisoned in Azkaban for being a Death Eater (like Marcellus Mulciber, who would probably curse his head off if they ever met again), or narrowly escaped Azkaban and wouldn’t associate with his turncoat self (Casper Avery, who’d sent his letters back unopened). It felt wrong to be mourning or reminiscing about Death Eaters when everyone else was probably thinking about their deceased relatives, but they hadn’t just been Death Eaters. They’d been his friends in school. They’d comforted him about Sirius’s departure, they’d tried to copy his homework, they’d hexed the Gryffindors when they tried to get him.

You could be a bad person and a good friend. Regulus did not ignore, forgive, or forget the misdeeds, but he mourned the friends.

After seven long minutes, Dumbledore stood up and said a word of thanks to James and Lily for their sacrifice, and to Harry Potter for his feat.

Regulus had hated Potter for stealing Sirius away, but he’d always grudgingly admired Lily Evans for her intelligence, her no-nonsense way of dealing with the Marauders, and her magical talent, and even he could admit that James Potter had been a wicked wizard with a wand.

He was 23, he remembered. The Potters had died at 21. He’d always known that, had dwelled on that fact when he’d first heard of their deaths, mourning the loss of such talented individuals at such a young age, but it struck him especially hard at that moment, sitting at the High Table watching the students file out of the Great Hall.

James and Lily Potter were only four years older that the seventh years he taught in his classroom when they died. Regulus thought about his house’s seventh years, about Vanessa Crabbe who cursed anyone who dared to touch her hair and Quinn Appleton who never fully woke up before their morning cup of coffee and Maximilian Greengrass who delighted in teaching the younger years prank spells to test on Gryffindors. The thought of them dying in four years was unthinkable.

Regulus also realised with a jolt that he was older than James and Lily Potter would ever be.

That thought was almost unthinkable as well, because he would always think of them, remember them, as _older_. Head Boy and Girl when he was a sixth-year prefect. Potter and Evans in the year above him, in Sirius’s year, seventeen when he was sixteen, sixteen when he was fifteen and so on. But now they were technically younger than him, would always be younger than him even as he continued to age, because they’d never had the chance to grow older.

His eyes sought out the Gryffindor table. He could see James Potter in the boys with messy hair, the boys with glasses, the boys with arrogance in their smiles and laughter in their eyes and loyalty in their bones. He could see Lily Evans in the girls with red hair, the girls with green eyes, the girls with fire dancing at their fingertips and love bursting in their hearts.

Hogwarts was filled with ghosts.

His goblet knocked against the side of the plate, spilling some pumpkin juice down the back of his hand, and his fork scraped against the glass.

“Are you alright, Mister Black?”

He blinked and turned to his side. McGonagall was watching him with eyes that were simultaneously sharp and soft, wary and sympathetic. They both looked startled after she spoke; she’d never called him anything but Black. Mister Black was reserved for when he was a student.

“I’m fine,” he said, surveying his surroundings. Most of the other teachers were heading off as well; in fact, he, McGonagall, and Dumbledore were the only ones left sitting.

“I’m fine,” Regulus repeated, forcing his limbs into functionality as he stood up from his seat. “Thanks for asking,” he added before he fled the Great Hall, heading straight for his quarters sequestered in the dungeons.

Elodie was already there when he arrived, face pale, eyes red and puffy. No doubt she was mourning her mother, and the friends and classmates who’d perished.

He must’ve looked incredibly shaken, because she took his trembling hand and dragged him over to his couch, deep emerald green and plush with matching cushions.

“Bad day?” she asked, intertwining their fingers as they sat down.

“Terrible,” he replied, mouth twisting. “Then again, I think everyone’s having a terrible day.”

She hummed in agreement. Regulus closed her eyes and slumped into her side, head resting on her shoulder, legs pressed together.

“My mum’s name was Evelyn,” she whispered in the silence. “She was a fantastic cook, especially with baking. Every year, for my birthday, she would make me the most beautiful cake. She worked at Cassandra’s Cakes, a bakery in Cardin Alley, and I haven’t gone back to it since she died. She loved muggle music, especially the classical ones, and some nights she would play music in the living room and dance around and try drag me and Dad into dancing as well. Her nickname for me was Melody, and she said it was because she loved me and she loved music, so she wanted to combine the two. She could sing and play the piano. We still have her piano, but no one plays it anymore, and I _could_ , she taught me how to play some songs, but I just…can’t.”

Her nails dug lightly into his skin, clammy palm pressed against his own, his fine fingers interlaced with hers.

“Barty liked to nap on the library tables,” he replied, squeezing their clasped hands. “He’d use an open book as a pillow, and I used to get so upset at him and go on a rant about how the book deserved better than that. Whenever I talked about something I liked, I would start to ramble, and he never cared; he’d just keep listening. He knew how to skip rocks and would practice while sitting by the Black Lake. He’d drag me all around Hogwarts trying to find its secrets, because he loved a good adventure.” He cleared his throat. “He said that when we grew up, we’d find the best spot, the place we both didn’t want to leave, and then we’d just…stay there, where no one could find us, forever. I wanted to believe him.”

“My best friend died in the war, too,” Elodie murmured. “Clara McKinnon. They killed her whole family, in the end. I rarely ever saw her without a smile on her face, or a laugh on her lips. She was only eighteen. She wanted to travel the world.”

“I don’t know why he did it,” he whispered. “I don’t know why, when he changed.”

“I don’t know why she died,” she replied. “Either of them, any of them. It’s so stupid.” She sucked in a shuddering breath. “This whole thing, this whole war, was so _stupid_. Did we even win?”

“No one did,” he replied. “There are only losers in a war.”

They sat there until midnight, exchanging bittersweet stories about the people who weren’t there to tell those tales themselves.

When the clock struck twelve, Elodie Flooed back to her house and Regulus ventured out onto the grounds, stifling a yawn and pulling his coat tighter around him.

The Samhain bonfire was already lit and roaring on the top of the hill when he arrived. A cluster of students were gathered around it, just finishing placing a circle of wet stones around the blaze, runes inscribed into the surface. He could see many Slytherins in the crowd, which was to be expected—his house contained most of the traditionalists. In fact, there were more people from the other houses than he expected, probably because the death of the Potters and the end of the war occurring on Samhain had encouraged people to partake in those particular rites to pay their respects even more.

McGonagall was there, stern and solemn in her sharp robes, flames flickering in her eyes. They exchanged a nod as Regulus moved to stand in front of the bonfire, eyes tracking the movements of the smoke that spiralled towards the sky.

A small piece of parchment was clutched in his hand. It was tradition to write down the name of someone who’d passed to the other side on a bit of flammable material, as well as a short message, and toss it into the bonfire; supposedly, since the space between the world of the living and the dead was much smaller on Samhain night, your message would be able to reach them.

_Potter. I’m sorry. RAB._

It had been his blood that spilled the Secret.

The two had never gotten along in life, but death tended to put petty feuds into perspective. Wherever James Potter was now, Regulus hoped he heard him.

The parchment caught fire as soon as he cast it into the flames, curling and crumpling into ash. Regulus shoved his hands into his pockets, mouth moving through the usual Latin chants, and thought about brothers.

Sirius’s birthday being only a few days after Samhain, on November 3rd, was another sick joke of Fate. His hands shook especially hard on that day, and he skipped mealtimes in favour of dining in the kitchen with the house elves so that he wasn’t tempted to look at the Gryffindor table and remember Sirius sitting there, head thrown back in laughter, surrounded by the friends he would eventually betray. Being in Hogwarts made it worse; just as every inch of the castle had held memories of Barty, every part of the school reminded him of his brother, good memories and bad memories flooding back to his head and brought to the forefront of his mind.

The day wasn’t widely publicised as the traitor Black’s birthday, but McGonagall seemed to know, and he could feel her quiet commiseration; after all, Sirius had been one of her favourite students, a bold, prized Gryffindor as much as he was Regulus’s brother, probably even more.

Try as he might, he just couldn’t erase the image of Sirius huddled in the corner of his cell, away from the Dementors, singing himself happy birthday. He couldn’t not imagine his brother in 1981, just thrown into Azkaban, spending his 22nd birthday alone.

“I don’t know why he did it,” he told Elodie that night when they sat together on his bed. “I want to ask him, but I also don’t want to ever know, because the truth might be too hard.”

She didn’t say anything, just ran her hands through his hair and soothed him to a restless sleep.

The days after Samhain and Sirius’s birthday were sluggish and slow, but time healed all wounds, even those freshly reopened, even those that had never closed. Regulus lectured his students about the wonders of Potions, prevented cauldrons from exploding, graded tests, and complained about having to grade tests. At night, spurred on by secret talks, he made his way to Grimmauld armed with sheets of muggle paper and practiced until his eyes could hardly stay open.

With November came the first games of the Quidditch Season. As he’d been a Seeker during his school years, he liked to come to the Slytherin team practices and observe, as well as offer some tips; he’d been Quidditch Captain as well, and a fairly good one, considering his house had won the Quidditch Cup in the year of his captaincy. Regulus had given a few gentle nudges of advice during the try-outs and initial practices, and at his polite urgings, Bertram Montague, the current captain, had eased up on some of the blatant cheating he’d been favouring.

“Truly superior Quidditch players can win without resorting to underhanded tactics,” he’d pointed out. Bertram had been red in the face but couldn’t argue against his Head of House. The eager Quidditch Captain was less irritated when Slytherin inched out a win against Gryffindor in the first match of the year.

December, and thus Yule or Christmas, arrived with a flurry of snow that settled in thick white layers on the ground and on the rooves of Hogwarts. In a show of sympathy to his students, who shivered and bundled their robes tighter over their bodies in his cold dungeon room, often resorting to pressing their palms against their heated cauldrons, and also to preserve his own comfort, he lit several unobtrusive fires around the classroom.

The Christmas holidays passed in a haze of cheerful bliss. To his pleasant surprise, quite a few students, not just his snakes, waved goodbye and wished him a Merry Christmas. He returned the favour, often after a moment of confused staring, as he cleaned up his classroom, grabbed the things he needed to take with him (though he’d been tempted to ditch the stack of unicorn hair essays), and Flooed back to 12 Grimmauld Place.

Kreacher popped in only a second after him. Regulus hadn’t seen the elf as much as he would’ve wanted to over the past few months, having been busy with his Professor duties and Kreacher busy sweeping up and cleaning the school. They exchanged a tight hug before he unpacked.

Regulus spent most of the holidays alternating between Grimmauld Place, the Tonks’s house, Elodie and her fathers’ place, and Malfoy Manor. Draco had grown in his absence, now a four-year-old that could speak enough to call him Uncle Reg—he was reminded of Adora, though he refrained from mentioning this comparison to the Malfoys—and demand his attention. Narcissa was as soft and coolly affectionate as usual, and Lucius even went out of his way to make awkward conversation about Hogwarts and his students, likely at his cousin’s request.

He stared at Lucius Malfoy, at the family he’d built, and wondered what choices the man would make when Tom Riddle made his comeback, whether it be weeks or months or years away. Narcissa was a snob, a traditionalist, a blood purist, but she’d never been involved in the gritty details of the Death Eaters, and he knew from watching her fawn over Draco that she would do anything for her son, even betray the Dark Lord. Lucius’s path was less certain to him.

Regulus eyed the gentle warmth in his grey eyes as he watched his wife and son, the loving looks exchanged by the two Malfoy adults over dinner, and hoped Lucius made the right choices.

Ted and Andromeda were as lovely as always, and he delighted in sharing stories of their daughter and her numerous near-disastrous accidents in his classroom, all while the girl in question sunk lower in her seat with a red flush painted across her cheeks.

“This is so unfair,” Adora pouted, flinging a spoonful of mashed potato at him. “None of the other kids have to deal with their bloody _Potions Professor_ consorting with their _parents_. Ugh.”

He ducked the projectile and grinned. “That’ll be ten points from Hufflepuff for attempted assault of a teacher, Miss Tonks,” he said.

Her face drained of colour. “You can’t do that!” She turned to her parents, who were holding back laughs. “He can’t do that, right? That didn’t actually work?”

“Would you like me to make that twenty?” he asked, arching a brow. That was when Ted lost it.

“Careful, Dora,” he gasped out between laughs. “Hufflepuff can’t afford this.”

“Slytherin’s going to win, anyway,” Regulus pointed out, and dinner devolved into a Hufflepuff vs Slytherin debate.

On Christmas Day, he visited the Lewis household for the first time; Elodie had always swung by Grimmauld Place, and they’d never ended up meeting at her own residence. Elodie still lived with her father, though she’d been muttering about getting her own place to live, in a modest one-storey brick home with smoke whistling out the protruding chimney in the village of Upper Flagley, with a sprawling garden only half-visible under the white powder. Snowflakes brushed against his skin, tucking themselves into the fibres of his clothing, dusting against his black pants and equally dark coat.

They apparated onto the doorstep and opened the door.

Joseph Lewis was a short man—Regulus was average height and Elodie was still a few inches shorter, so he could see where she’d gotten her height from, though he didn’t point this out to her for fear of an elbow in the gut—with a feathery moustache and a light dusting of grey mixed in with his natural light brown hair, short and meticulously neat. He was wearing a smart brown jacket and dark pants with faded patches.

“The famous Regulus Black,” the other man said, rising from his seat as they walked in. “Elodie’s told me a lot about you. Merry Christmas—I’m Joseph Lewis.”

Regulus shook his outstretched hand firmly. “Only good things, I hope,” he said, hoping his inner panic wasn’t too obvious. “Good to meet you, Mister Lewis. Merry Christmas to you too.”

He waved a careless hand. “Please, call me Joseph,” he insisted. “If you’re going to be hanging around awhile, it won’t do to have you calling me Mister Lewis. I’m not that old.”

“Of course not,” he replied with a small smile. “Joseph it is.”

The curtains, coarse and dark blue, had been pushed to the side, letting the thin slivers of light shine through the exposed glass. Pictures of Elodie were littered everywhere; baby photos hung from the wall, Hogwarts memorabilia was arranged on the mantel, and holiday memories rested in or on top of drawers. Regulus’s eyes surveyed his home, his sanctuary, as he pulled off his mittens, tucked them into his coat pockets, and set down his gifts; a bottle of expensive wine for Joseph, and an exclusively printed and signed edition of Elodie’s favourite book series, some long one about a trouble-attracting boarding school kid.

He wasted no time in threading his and Elodie’s fingers together again.

Joseph sat down in his dark orange armchair, leaning back and resting his arms on the worn armrests. Regulus followed his lead and sat down on the couch, which was the same shade and build but able to fit three. Elodie settled at his side after adjusting the folded-back edges of her brown oversized sweater, still holding his hand.

There was a squeaking meow, and he let out an undignified yelp as a ball of ginger fur flung itself into his lap. It was a cat, which snuggled into him, bleary eyes glaring at him and demanding pets.

“Hello,” he whispered, shooting Elodie a fearful look. When she smiled a gentle smile and gestured for him to stroke the creature, he laid a careful hand on the cat’s head, between its ears. It let out a rumbling purr; emboldened by this show of approval, he moved the hand down its back, scratching its belly.

“I did warn you about Truckie,” she pointed out.

“I was a bit preoccupied,” he hissed in return. “Also, _Bowtruckle_ , seriously? For a cat?”

“It’s a great name!”

“It’s definitely a name. Great is a stretch.” The cat nudged at his fingers, disgruntled over the lack of pats, and he obliged. “See, he agrees with me.”

“Truckie will agree with anyone who’s currently lavishing him with attention,” Elodie deadpanned. “Easily bribed, Bowtruckle.” She blinked. “Wait. Reg, your name is _Regulus Arcturus Black_. You cannot talk about ridiculous names.”

“It’s traditional,” he sniffed.

“It can be traditional and ridiculous,” she parried. “And pretentious. And stupid. And—”

“ _Bowtruckle_.”

“Your mother’s name was _Walburga_.”

“Okay, but she deserved it.”

Elodie frowned in thought, then nodded. “Yeah, fair enough, I’ll give you that.”

Joseph coughed lightly, and they both turned to look at him, cheeks pink. He looked fondly amused, hands folded and resting on his legs. “Not to interrupt,” he said, lips twitching, “but dinner is ready, if you wish to eat.”

As if on cue, Elodie’s stomach growled, and she gave a sheepish laugh. “I think we’re ready.”

Regulus nodded, and they stood up together, heading to the dining table. Only when they needed to wield their cutlery with both hands did they relinquish their grip on each other; even then, their ankles hooked around each other beneath the table.

Joseph Lewis seemed to notice, because the corners of his eyes softened, and he raised a wine glass in cheers. “To love,” he said, throat somewhat choked. “May it conquer all foes.”

“To love,” Regulus echoed, and the three of them clinked their glasses together.

To his credit, Joseph only offered a few invasive questions about his Death Eater days, and it was never accusing or derogatory, only asking after his history to make sure he was good with his daughter. Regulus only stuttered and fumbled his words a few dozen times, so he counted that as a success as well, and could anyone really blame him for being nervous?

It had only been a year and a few months, but Elodie was already someone he wanted in his future as a permanent fixture. He desperately wanted to avoid messing up his meeting with her father.

When he ceased his quasi-interrogation, Joseph leaned back and gave Elodie a nod. “You’ve picked well, daughter mine,” he grinned. “Much better than—what was her name? Amy? Anna?”

“Amara,” she said through gritted teeth. “In my defence, we’d only been dating a few months, and I thought it was obvious we were both muggleborns. I didn’t expect her to start screaming obscenities when you mentioned it! Besides, I learned my lesson,” she added with a disgruntled huff. “I waited a whole year.”

“I think you have a type, Lids,” Regulus remarked, taking a sip of wine. “A blood purist for an ex-girlfriend, and then a former blood purist for your current boyfriend? That’s a bit of a pattern.” He neatly dodged her bony elbow and smiled at the scowl on her lips.

“I’ll admit, I was worried when my daughter first told me you two were together,” Joseph said. “I knew you’d defected and all, but I didn’t know how much you still believed in your old ways. However, you’ve been a pleasant surprise. El doesn’t need my approval, but, well, I approve.”

Regulus’s shoulders slumped, and he sighed in relief. “Thank you very much,” he said. “I’ll try to continue being worthy of your approval.”

“So fancy!” Elodie exclaimed.

“I prefer elegant.”

“Pretentious.”

“Put-together.”

“Snob.”

He bent down and stroked Truckie’s back, laughing as his tail brushed against his wrist. “Truckie loves me, doesn’t me?”

Judging by the content meow he received in reply, he took that as a yes.

Elodie’s mouth moved, and Joseph’s eyes widened, but he was too absorbed in the cat butting its furry head against his fingers that he didn’t hear or notice her.

“Sorry, did you say something?”

Her face was a blotchy red, lips pressed into a thin, pale line. “Don’t worry about it,” she dismissed, making an annoyed face at her cat. Her father stifled his laugh in his drink, and she threw a spoon at him.

The three of them moved to the living room after dinner, the cat choosing Joseph’s lap as its new resting place. They opened their presents—Joseph had gotten him a box of rich chocolates, while Elodie’s gift was the recently released, most up-to-date telescope model and motionless muggle photos of space.

“Reg?”

He flinched as Elodie poked his side. “Hm?”

“Are you okay?” she asked. “You didn’t start rambling when I mentioned potion ingredient preparation, so something must be wrong.”

Now or never, then.

“You told me on Samhain,” he said, gently extracting his hand from hers and fidgeting with his fingers, “that your mother played the piano.”

Out the corner of his eye, he saw Joseph stiffen. Elodie’s face smoothed out as well, aside from the small, frowning downturn of her lips.

“I did,” she said slowly. “Her piano is tucked away in a spare room, since no one plays it anymore.”

Regulus sucked in a deep breath. “You know my family’s rich and noble and such,” he began. “Mother made us learn an instrument when we were younger.” Her eyes widened. “I picked the piano.” He paused. “If it’s not insensitive or improper of me…I would be honoured to play a song.”

Elodie’s eyes misted over, and he tripped over himself to offer apologies for his invasive request.

“No, no, you didn’t do anything wrong,” she said, waving away his words and carefully pressing her fingers to her eyes. “That would be lovely, actually.” She glanced at her father, who was similarly struck.

“I would love to hear you play, Regulus,” Joseph said, tremulous smile on his lips.

Tension eased from his shoulders. Elodie stood up and he and Joseph trailed after her to the spare room. The piano was covered in a purple cloth, which he slid off and folded to the side.

With a few waves of his wand, any dust which had snuck its way onto the sleek black surface of the instrument was gone, and any tuning irregularities were fixed. Regulus sat down on the sturdy dark seat and lifted the lid, steadying himself and laying his fingers on the white-and-black keys.

“Did you want some of her old sheet music?” Elodie’s soft voice asked.

He shook his head. “I learned something on my home’s piano,” he explained. “If all goes well…”

There were muffled gasps as he began to press down on the keys and play, fingers flowing across the keyboard as the melody poured out of his memory. Long nights spent sitting at his family’s grand piano paid off; the notes had been impressed into his memory, and his strenuous childhood lessons paid off—his fingers didn’t hit a wrong key. He just hoped this wasn’t crossing some unspoken line or bringing up bits of trauma they preferred to keep buried.

When the song ended, he clasped her hands and turned in the seat, eying the two Lewises with trepidation.

Joseph’s arm was on Elodie’s shoulders, and while tears trickled down his cheeks, there was a wide smile on his face. Elodie was crying with abandon, he realised, hands clasped and pressed to her heart.

“I’m…sorry?”

Elodie laughed and shook her head, wiping her tears away with the side of her hand. “Don’t apologise,” she hiccupped. “That was fantastic. That was beautiful.”

“Bohemian Rhapsody always was Evelyn’s favourite,” Joseph murmured.

“Um, yeah,” Regulus said, feeling extremely out of his depth. Neither of his parents had been loving or affectionate, and they were both dead, having died without him there, so he really didn’t know how to approach the loss of a beloved mother. “Elodie told me she played the piano and liked this song, so I thought I’d learn it and play it for you if you’d let me, since she said no one had played since Evelyn’s passing. I’m sorry if I rushed you.”

“You didn’t rush us,” Joseph said, walking over and laying a large, pale hand on his shoulder. “I think you came at exactly the right time. And I think my wife would have adored you.”

“Really?” His eyes were wide.

“She would’ve loved you,” Elodie confirmed, still crying. “You’re adorable, socially awkward, _and_ you play the piano. She’d adopt you on the spot.”

He flushed, fidgeting in the piano seat. “I think I would’ve liked her, too,” he said, words soft.

Joseph dug out more of Evelyn’s songs, and Elodie sat down beside him, the two of them working through a duet together. The older man pulled up a seat and sat to the side, watching with faraway eyes as they once again filled the room with music.

“You’re always welcome here,” Joseph told him when he was preparing to leave. “I have a feeling Elodie will begin playing again, but I would love to have the piano continue being used. Evie tried to teach me, but I was hopeless.” His smile was wobbly. “She wouldn’t want it to just sit there, untouched. You and El, you can bring it back to life. You can keep her alive.”

“I would love to,” Regulus said.

Elodie approached him, shooting her dad a look. Joseph smiled, bowed his head, and left the room, leaving the two of them alone.

He felt inexplicable anxiety flood him. “Did you—did you like the surprise?” he asked, voice cracking in the middle of the sentence.

She laughed, eyes still slightly red, and nodded. “It was beautiful,” she murmured. “And so thoughtful. I can’t believe you did that—practiced it, memorised it, played it—just for me.” Her cheeks were dusted red as well, a healthy flush rising on her pale skin. Long strands of light brown framed her face, falling to her mid-chest.

Here, in the warm gold-toned light of her living room, with her hair loose and cheeks red and pink lips pulled into a wide smile, wearing dark jeans that flared out at the hem and a creamy brown woollen sweater with sleeves that had fallen out of its folds to engulf her hands, she had never been more beautiful. She was looking at him with bright, kind blue eyes, with so much affection and fondness, and Regulus was struck by the fact that he wanted her looking at him like that forever.

He wanted her forever.

“I would do anything for you,” he said, as much a realisation as a confession.

“Anything?”

She was so close. He wanted her to be closer.

“Anything.”

Her lips tasted like elderflower wine and muggle lipstick. She smelled like floral perfume. His hands rose to cradle her face, and he thought dizzily that he’d held his beloved wands and golden rivers of galleons and expensive jewellery pulled from the depths of the Black vaults in Gringotts, but Elodie Lewis was still the most precious, exquisite thing he’d ever touched.

The words rose in his throat. Finally, it felt right.

“I love you,” he said when they parted for air.

“I love you more,” she whispered, the corners of her eyes crinkling with the force of her smile.

He laughed. “I love you most.”

“I love you most times infinity!”

“That’s _cheating_ —”

“You deserve it,” she huffed. “I planned this whole confession and you just had to one-up me, didn’t you? The audacity.”

He kissed her again, smile splitting his face open, feeling drunk on the rush of happiness. She loved him. She _loved_ him.

“I’m not going to apologise,” he murmured against her mouth.

She rolled her eyes and kissed him again.

Regulus could get used to this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> regulus and elodie are the cutest gah i love them so much my adorable creations (well the terf created reg but this iteration of him is all mine hehe)
> 
> anyway i hope everyone had a good valentine's day! i'm currently kicking myself for not posting this yesterday because it would've been perfect considering it has The Love Confession lmfao
> 
> still in a bit of a writing slump but my past self prepared like one or two more chapters thank god so here ya go

**Author's Note:**

> hello my fellow rab fanatics! 
> 
> for a regulus stan, i've never actually written a regulus lives fic, despite my love for them (probably because i love the angst too much. oh well, this will still be plenty angsty). i've decided to remedy that with this, while also incorporating another regulus fic premise, potions master regulus black.
> 
> this will be fun! hope y'all liked this and will read the other chapters when i get around to posting them. i've got four written right now, including this one. i'm definitely aiming to Not abandon this! regulus deserves it, as well as other nice things.
> 
> also...this is purely what i want to see in a fic and what i want to right about, so kinda wish fulfilment??? yeah. might be slow the first few chapters before we get into the hoggy warty hogwarts stuff.


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